Back when we were friends, I used to call him Jay. He’d call me Shorty when he was teasing me, and Leon when he was serious. When he was laughing or joking with me, he’d call me Lee. I loved it when he called me that. He used to have a way of saying it that made my insides grow warm in a way that never happened with anyone else.

But those days are over now -- a thing of the past. Something I sometimes still miss, I must admit.

He, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have a care in the world, casually going through my bag like there’s something he owns inside of it.

“Were you sure to bring your tampons today, babe?” he asks me, feigning seriousness. “I wouldn’t want you to be leaking all over the place and embarrass yourself in a whole new way.”

“Fuck you, Harrelson,” I hear myself say through gritted teeth. Strange; speaking of names, I haven’t called him that in over a year.

He seems to realize that too, and momentarily stops searching my bag to stare at me -- for a moment too long. Dammit, I don’t have the time for this. “Give it back!”

“No. Not until I’m sure you have all your lady supplies,” he says, grinning again as he continues rummaging through my backpack. Still acting like he’s entitled to go through all my stuff like he used to be, and as though he hasn’t mercilessly ditched me as a friend over a year before.

“What’s this?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as he suddenly pulls out a notebook I have kept on me for years. It’s simple and unremarkable: black with white geometrical lines on the cover. I’ve deliberately kept it hidden from him all these years because it’s filled with scribbles and with ...

“What the heck are these?” he asks me as he flips through the pages. I stand in front of him, frozen to the spot and overtaken with dread, unable to say anything. This was never supposed to happen, and I can’t believe I didn’t take precautions to prevent it.

“Wait ... are these ... love poems, Leon?”

At least he has the decency to say it softly so that no one else can hear it, but my insides still turn into ice upon hearing those words. This can’t be. He was never supposed to see these poems about him. Poems I wrote when I was fourteen and when I was head over heels in love with my best friend. I’m not anymore because he’s no longer my best friend.

Then, in front of me, to my absolute horror, Jay starts reading one aloud.

“These feelings I feel I never knew I could. Feelings I feel I don’t know if I should. But around you, my heart does a double take. How impossible for me to fake ...”

God, how embarrassing. My whole body cringes. “Stop! Stop it right now, Jayden!”

He’s frowning, but his lips are quirked, indicating that he’s conflicted about whether to find this funny. Odd, I’d assume he’d start laughing at me straight away, displaying my writing for others to see. “Only if you tell me who it’s about,” he says instead, daringly holding up the notebook.

About you, I think to myself. Who else could they ever be about? But I won’t admit that to him, so I stay silent.

“Are you dating someone, Shorty?” Jayden asks.

“That’s none of your business!” I snap at him, avoiding his gaze, even though I believe my chances of ever dating anyone are almost zero. “I’m surprised a jock like you even recognizes what a love poem looks like!”

He frowns at my defensive reply. Even after everything, I can’t help but talk to him the way I used to do, the way I can’t talk to anyone else. I still treat him the same way I did when we were friends. Like I can say anything to him and not risk getting my ass kicked, even though I know it’s a definite possibility. One of these days, I will have to suffer the consequences of our banter. I’m sure of it.

Even now, I can see his eyes flare as he looks at the notebook.