1. James
You were curled in the corner of the classroom, carelessly ripping through flesh and keratin with your baby teeth. We weren’t supposed to interact with the kids in timeout. Isolation was the most devastating and effective punishment for a restless four-year-old boy. But I never cared much for the rules, especially when it came to you.
“Does it hurt?” I whispered, glancing at your raw, red fingers.
“Not much. It’s fun. Wanna try?”
I nodded. Whatever you did, I did too. We were, as our parents liked to say, two peas in a pod. Nervously, I slid a thumb between my front teeth and clamped down.
“Huh.” I winced as a dull, throbbing pressure spread through my fingertip. It wasn’t exactly fun. “Maybe I just need more practice.”
“Yeah, probably,” you said, already distracted by the chatter of the first-graders heading out for recess. You pressed your grubby, blood-streaked fingers against the window as you gazed longingly at the playground. I looked down at my own clean, manicured nails, wincing at the stark contrast. I quickly curled my hands back into the warmth of my sweater.
We stayed by the windowsill, rambling on about our favourite cartoon, until the sharp click of heels echoed through the room. We both tensed.
“Yoyo,” Miss Wu said, “what did I say about talking to James during timeout?”
“Sorry, Miss Wu,” I mumbled, eyes downcast.
You, however, stuck your tongue out at her. I elbowed you in the ribs as a warning before slipping away to join the rest of our kindergarten class.
Separated from you, my mind wandered. I didn’t listen to the lesson on addition and subtraction. My thoughts kept circling back to the sensation of my skin beneath my teeth, the discomfort of disliking something you enjoyed. I slid my fingers into my mouth, trying over and over to understand it. To understand you.
~~~~~
I still bite my nails. You don’t anymore.
It has been a year since the last time I saw you. We spent the evening on the couch, suffocating in awkward silence as our parents laughed and reminisced in the dining room. I stared at your hands. You stared out the window. Two overgrown peas in a crumbling pod.
I still don’t understand you. And now, I fear I never will.
2. Evangeline
We were eating spaghetti and meatballs. Your mom had a knack for serving up the most quintessential all-American spread: baby carrots dunked in ranch for snack, endless variations of gooey boxed pasta for dinner, and velvety chocolate cake for dessert. Throughout elementary school, I adored mealtime at your house. It felt like stepping into one of those perfect TV families where everyone was impossibly happy, impossibly skinny, and impossibly blonde.
“Evangeline,” your mom said sternly.
You looked up at her with furrowed brows.
“Remember, no elbows on the table. It’s not polite.”
“But Yoyo puts her elbows on the table,” you said.
I froze mid-bite. My elbows were planted flat against the smooth oak of the dining table.
“Maybe Yoyo’s family has different rules,” your mom said, “but that doesn’t mean you get to slack off.”
Heat crept up my cheeks. My family never cared much about table manners. Besides, at home, we used chopsticks. It was much easier to elevate my elbows with those than with a fork. But here, under your mom’s disapproving gaze, it was clear that I was doing everything wrong. Slowly, I tucked my elbows under the table.
Later, stuffed with one too many slices of chocolate cake, we played with our dolls in the basement. You casually brushed off the incident at dinner: “Mom makes such a big deal out of nothing. She’d probably ground me for life if she saw how many times I’ve put my elbows on the table when she wasn’t looking.”
“For life?” I said, wide-eyed.
“For life,” you said as you handed me one of your dolls—a pretty blonde with twinkling blue eyes, just like yours. I hugged it close, feeling the warmth of your voice settle over me. You had a way of making everything seem brighter. Lighter.
~~~~~
I still remember to keep my elbows off the table. Your mother’s voice lingers in my head at every meal, a ghost from evenings long gone.
I moved away the summer after third grade. We lost touch. I don’t know where you are anymore. But you still find me in the quiet moments—when I stumble across reruns of cheesy TV shows, twirl spaghetti around my fork, or pass the rows of dolls on display at the mall. Even now, you make everything feel a little lighter.
I hope you’re still shining bright. I hope you think of me sometimes too.
3. Bella
It was Track and Field Day. Fifty-four sweaty preteens milled around beneath a sagging burgundy tent, their impatience as palpable as the humid air.
You tapped me lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”
“To where?” I asked, fumbling with my shoelaces. I was dreading my upcoming event, the 1500-meter race. I wasn’t even supposed to run it; I was the unlucky replacement for a girl taken out by the flu.
“On a walk,” you said. “It’s nice out. I wanna explore.”
I hummed noncommittally, gaze locked on the knot I couldn’t seem to tighten.
You sighed. “C’mon, you look like you need a pick-me-up.”
Maybe you were right. I had spent most of the morning in a state of frenzy, chewing my nails down to the quick. Reluctantly, I stood up. “Fine. Lead the way.”
We skipped down the dirt road. Our conversation bloomed effortlessly, flitting from silly drama to secret crushes to dream jobs. Troubling thoughts of races and shoelaces were soon forgotten in the face of your wild laughter and outrageous anecdotes.
At some point, you looped your arm through mine, tugging me close as you teased and joked. I never liked hugging or holding hands much—the gestures felt too awkward, too deliberate—but with you, it was effortless, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like none of it was.
We returned to the tent arm-in-arm, giggling breathlessly. We were thirsty and sunburnt, but thoroughly pleased with our spontaneous adventure.
“Yoyo, you’ve missed your event!” Mr. Arnold called out. He barreled toward us, waving his clipboard indignantly.
I gasped. You squeezed my arm, murmuring an apology into my ear. Surprisingly, however, I didn’t feel the rush of panic I expected.
“It’s okay,” I said softly, resting my hand over yours. “I didn’t want to do it anyway. Besides, I had a much better time with you.”
~~~~~
I still love linking arms with all of my friends. It’s a simple gesture of affection, but it warms my heart every time—and I like to think it does the same for theirs.
You moved away to another country for high school. Somewhere along the way, we drifted apart. Now, I watch your life through captions and snapshots on a screen. You go by a different name. You dyed your hair. You got glasses. You have a new group of friends. To be honest, you look a little lost, a shadow of the sunbeam you used to be. Then again, I often feel that way too.
Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder: beneath the changes, do you still chase the magic of our shared childhood? Are you still the girl I once loved?
4. Claire
We stumbled into the bathroom in our pajamas, rubbing our eyes tiredly. We were always up far too late, lost in endless conversations about everything and nothing. There was simply too much to discuss and analyze and unravel.
I crouched down, rummaging through my cupboard for my toothpaste.
You scoffed. “Really?”
“What?”
“You squeeze your toothpaste like that?”
I frowned. “How do you squeeze your toothpaste?”
“In the normal way,” you snorted, crossing your arms. “You’re not supposed to squeeze from the middle of the tube. That’s messy. You start from the ends so that it doesn’t get bunched up.”
My mouth dropped open. I’d never thought of that. You slammed your palm against your forehead, your exasperation clear.
Rooming with you was packed with ridiculous moments like this. You taught me how to fold clothes properly, how to boil water, and even how to make ramen more efficiently. Oftentimes, I wonder how I survived before you and your constant jokes and mercurial whimsies strutted into my world.
Two peas in a pod. Thick as thieves. Birds of a feather. Whatever the cliché, that was us.
~~~~~
I still squeeze my toothpaste the way you taught me. Admittedly, it works well—my tube is neatly smoothed out, every last bit of toothpaste accessible.
We’re still best friends. Still roommates. Still see each other every single day. But part of me trembles at the thought of the day everything will end. Will you become a memory, like so many others have?
I hope not. I hope you don’t become another hollow part of my heart—the kind that aches when I bite my nails, or pick up a fork, or link arms with a friend. I hope that you are not a leftover habit.
About the Author:
Yoyo Dou is an avid reader and emerging writer from Toronto, Canada. She studies at Columbia University and serves as Editor-in-Chief of Cathartic Youth Literary Magazine. Her work has appeared in Levitate Magazine, The Stirling Review, Polyphony Lit, and elsewhere.
Isele Magazine 