We are set apart by two years, three tomorrow. If only I had been born earlier, orhttp://introvertism.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post-new.php he later, we would at least be friends. But all I get is a rambling babyspeech. He treats me like a little kid because that’s what I am to him. Just some kid who he’ll forget when he gets out of high school and never write back to and what was her name again? Minerva something.
And I can’t do what they can, his friends. I can’t walk up to him and tell him happy birthday because how did I remember that? I most certainly don’t know how old he is and that he’s like me, young for his grade. And that he got straight B’s on his report card this past quarter. He can’t know because we are two years apart, three tomorrow.
And there’s no changing that.
