After You

Jess

Alfie,

Remember when our parents decided we were going to get married?

I think it was just before our Year 7 disco. Some bright spark had the idea of making it American Prom-themed, so it was basically a room full of eleven- and twelve-year olds in miniature tuxedos and ballgowns, bopping along to Pop Princesses and eating Space Raider crisps. Everyone had spent the previous six weeks agonising over who to ask and whether so-and-so would want to go with them. Luckily, I had a ready-made prom partner living just across the road. Oh, how we laughed at the drama when Tia and Courtney stopped being friends for six whole hours because they both wanted to be Marc's date, and Marc didn't want to go with either of them.

Pre-teen politics. It all seemed so huge at the time, and yet I'd give anything to go back.

We stood in front of the fireplace in your living room, posing stiffly and awkwardly holding hands, as our dads took endless streams of pictures, and our mums gushed about how adorable we looked together. My mum said "Oh, can you imagine when this photo will be on the wall next to their wedding photo?", and your mum started squealing in delight, and our dads grinned at each other, and I felt my cheeks burn.

From then on, they had it in their heads that we were as good as betrothed. I know they didn't take it too seriously, and I'm sure it was just because we looked cute and they thought it was funny, but for a couple of twelve-year-olds it was mortifying. I wanted the ground to swallow me up there and then. I hazarded a glance at you, and saw that you'd gone bright red too. At least we were mutually embarrassed, I suppose.

Maybe a year after that, I started to feel differently. I felt things towards you. I'm not going to say I was head over heels in love with you, because I wasn't. Can you be head over heels in love with someone you've grown up with? We were potty trained together; we started school together; we lost our front teeth at the same time (by running into each other head-first for a dare, not by some fluke of nature). The feelings I had for you were comfortable and easy. You were like an old sweater; comforting and warm. Something I knew almost better than I knew myself.

You didn't laugh at me when I told you that. That's something, I suppose. I kind of wanted you to say it back to me. I wanted you to feel the same way, and then we'd have the sort of whirlwind romances thirteen-year-olds had back then. Maybe we'd hold hands on the school bus and share one pair of headphones instead of using a splitter. Those were couple things.

You let me down gently. You told me I wasn't your type. I asked what your type was – I suppose my vapid thirteen-year-old brain thought I should change myself, to try and mould myself into your type. You shrugged your shoulders so casually and said you were still waiting to find out, but it wasn't me. You didn't mean it cruelly, but I didn't expect to be so heartbroken. For you, the awkwardness slipped away in an instant and we were back to that simple, easy friendship. It wasn't so easy for me.

Words complicate everything. Nothing is ever simple when words get involved. Now that my words were out in the open, our friendship could never be simple and easy again.

Then came Willow. Beautiful, complex, interesting Willow. Nothing was easy and comfortable with Willow. You and Willow weren't potty trained together; you didn't start school together; you didn't lose your front teeth together. There were no shared memories or family moments to reminisce on, and nothing to stop the love at first sight you clearly felt for one another. You bonded over literary quotes. I tried my hardest not to flinch when she misquoted The Catcher In The Rye. I barely suppressed a shudder when she told you that Wuthering Heights was her favourite book. You couldn't stand it.

"I love Wuthering Heights!", you exclaimed to her.

Everyone has a favourite sweater. That comfortable, snuggly, "I'm at home in your arms" kind of sweater, with such a particular, familiar smell and feel. Mum used to do the lightest wash possible on my sweater, just to keep it soft and comforting for me. One day, she used a different detergent. Such a simple change; what difference could it make? When the sweater came out of the dryer, it wasn't soft or welcoming. It smelled too clean and sterile. I slipped it on and it felt starchy and dry against my skin, until I had to take it off. It was like my body was rebelling against the change.

In an instant, the comforting sweater I knew so well was a stranger to me.

I wish I was just talking about clothing and laundry.

Jess