"The Capital of Memories" (Everyone)

"The Capital of Memories"

In the style of Andre Aciman

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The sunlight glazes through the dusty Sunday afternoon windows, streaks of gold scattering on the beige-and-tiles littering the floor.

I can see everything now. I step up to desk in the corner, the memories flooding my mind. This is my desk, but if I turn my head slightly to the right, I can see your desk, and whatever you decided to focus on during that day. In this classroom, homeroom, we had English. In the classroom down the hallway, we took our chemistry final. In this desk I used to stash my secret supply of candy and caffeine tablets, along with a few cans of red bull for those afternoon two-hour exams. You'd always sneak candy from my stash, and after I'd nag you in the hallway for taking my last Red Bull, you'd give me a sheepish smile and a hug, and I'd forget about the Red Bull.

I step up to the windows, gazing across the school grounds. I see the hill where we used to walk, and if I focus a little harder, I might be able to see the grassy knoll where we used to have lunch, far away from the prying eyes of the school and the world. And maybe, if I focus a little harder, I can see you there. Everything's the same--there's a sunflower in the corner of the yard, and there's a grey-green metal desk in here, and there's a desk, with candy inside, and a board, black, and a construction board, green, and lights and pencils and sunlight.

Everything's here--the pencils, the books, the pens, and the sunflower. Even the Red Bull. Everything's here. Except for you.