Trevor, I saw you again—

I saw you sitting at the desk right beside me in Mr. Tracey’s seventh-grade homeroom,

Filled with twenty unhygienic twelve-year-old students. It smelled of strong coffee in a thermal.

A clock rests above the door. It ticks away the moments.

You were wearing that ratty brown zipper-up you liked so much.

The one that smelled as if it hadn’t seen the insid...

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