This Wasn’t The First Time We Met

sophie-butcher

This wasn’t the first time we met, but the first I can remember.

We sat in her pastel print kitchen, inhaling the chocolate fudge cake her mum sets down on the light wooden table. Sunlight bores through the windows, bouncing off the white surfaces and floral trinkets. Her home always felt so much more, well, homely than mine.

To look at us, it’s our difference that are obvious. Her slight frame compared to my broad, tall one. Her dark eyes, skin and hair compared to my blue gaze and pale freckled complexion. Little and large, they called us.

Alone in her small bedroom at the end of the hall, we had weird and wonderful chats that can only stem from a child’s imagination; that only happen when it’s just the two of use.

Those talks, they’ve never stopped. They’re what we’re made of. I wouldn’t be alive without her.

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