Plans We Never Got to Keep

We hadn’t talked in years, not really. Not since childhood, when grass stains and ghost stories bound us like magic. Cousins, but closer than that — best friends before the world grew quiet. We were six, sitting in circles at recess, telling wild stories just to make the hours stretch. Remember the green-eyed creatures who chased us in our dreams? The ghost at Grandma’s house you swore was real? I never doubted you. We played for hours on end. You were my best friend. Remember the clover patch outside my dad’s work? Always searching for the lucky one. You always found it. You always found everything. Then came middle school. Then came silence. But there we were again — Algebra class. Me with a book. You, with that grin you never really lost. You saw I was hurting. He cheated. I tried to disappear behind the pages, but you pulled me back with a clever excuse — “Can you help me with this homework?” We slipped into laughter like we never left. Talked about the backyard — how you got clotheslined because you forgot to duck. You made it sound epic. It was. We remembered the jungle of tall grass, the ghost stories, the way the world once felt ours. We made plans. To hang out. To pick up where we left off. To be real again. You handed me your worksheet, and I promised: “I’ll finish it tonight.” But I didn’t. I got distracted. It could wait, I thought. And then — while I was doing it — my brother ran in, breathless. "Armando died.” I told him to stop lying. He wasn’t. The boy who lit up every hallway, the one who made even sadness smile — was gone. And now— I can’t remember the sound of your laugh, but every time I laugh, I see your face. I carry our last conversation like a fragile thing with wings. The way you looked at me — like you still knew me. Like nothing had changed. That was the last time. But it was real. And it’s enough to remember you.