I ran into an old crush. We used to date when we were about 9 or 10, for like one day. All we did was hold hands for a whole afternoon in my backyard. I don’t think we even kissed on the cheeks. I went home with a chest too full to breathe. 

That’s when two of her older brothers, she had three, called out for me from my driveway. I stepped out on my balcony. They looked up at me, squinting the sun out of their eyes. You need to leave our sister alone, one of them said. She can’t be dating no faggot. But I can’t be a faggot if I’m dating your sister, I reasoned. Shut up, faggot, they said. I couldn’t even get close to her after that. 

I also didn’t try. Those guys scared the shit out of me. The eldest once kicked my ass because I was walking my dog in front of his house, which made his dog bark. I told him that he didn’t own the street, and he jumped me. I still remember the stank of his spit on my face as he sat on my chest. My own dog, sitting and staring stupidly. He died years later (they both did, my dog and the older brother). Wrapped his car around a telephone pole, drunk and speeding. I remember when the news broke out. I had to pretend to be grieving along with everyone else even though it felt like justice.  

I was visiting a friend when I saw her again. A fellow wastoid. We lost track of each other before High School ended. One morning I showed up, and he wasn’t there. Later in the day, I learned through some other friends of his that he was in juvie for trashing his mom’s place in a drunken fit. He called me up after he came home. His mom took him back. He was drunk when I arrived. The sight of him depressed me. His pasty skin was swollen from the booze, like a baby. You don’t look so happy to see me, man, he said, hiccuping. I was excited to see you, I replied, but you look like shit. It’s hard to watch. He flopped on a chair and stared at the table, as if I was already gone. So I Ieft. 

The spiraling staircase resonated at every step I took going down. I stopped in the parking lot to light a cigarette. I needed to process. Is that Sims? What the fuck are you doing here? There was the bratty freckled ginger girl I held hands with, eight years ago or so. Her hair was dyed blonde, but the freckles were still there. She lived in one of the walk up apartment buildings nearby, sold weed out of the parking lot. We commented on each other’s style. Me. Tight black jeans, torn all over. A band t-shirt, a mohawk and black nail polish. Her. Celticsvjersey over a black sports bra, Echo pants with one leg rolled up and a green bandana strapped around her calf. We flirted a little. She said her brothers weren’t around anymore. 

I bought weed from her once or twice over the summer, but never called her back after. I slid through some door cracks that might not have been there for her and the friend I left behind that day. I moved to the city, went to college, and made friends that uplifted me. As I move away from being the person that they knew then, all I can do is think back on them and hope for the best.