I now know him as the guy who comes to smoke hash on my roof because he feels it's safer here then it is at his place. Less chances of getting caught see.
But he used to be my best friend, years and years ago, before I moved back here, officially. We used to run off and get french fries together, and play hide and seek, and sit on his grandfather's roof and make plans, lots and lots of plans. He used to stick up for me when the other kids made fun of me for wearing shorts, and he used to promise, at the end of every summer that he'd come visit me in America.
I wonder if he remembers that. When I wake up at two am to let him and my brother in, so the parents don't wake up, he lowers his eyes as he walks by, and I always wonder why. Doesn't he want to be friends anymore? Doesn't he want to make more plans? Doesn't he realize that it could be like that again?
But then again, it probably couldn't. It'd never be the same, the wild abandon we once had could never be achieved again. And that's okay. I think. Sometimes maybe, it's just better to let memories be memories.