It was just before my final year of school when my family moved back. The very first thought that came to mind was her. Had she changed much? Did she still have long hair? Does she remember me?

Childhood memories resurfaced of us romping about in our gardens, riding our bikes, playing tag and other games only a child's imaginative mind could come up with. Some days, we would share little bits of treasure that we would find while going about our respective days. Other days, we would lie on the lawn and make up ridiculous stories to tell one another. Those days were my favourite.

On that first day of school, I stood near the entrance, fidgeting and scanning the waves of passing students for the near-forgotten face. When I finally saw her, my eyes grew wide. She had changed in so many ways but there was a pang of familiarity as soon as I saw her.

As I walked up to her, I saw the same mask of recognition befall her face as her eyes landed on me. I watched as her eyes travelled over me, assessing and considering; and then she turned and walked away leaving me standing, shocked.

Our first class together set our relationship. There I was, sitting at my desk and taking a sip out of my water bottle, when she walked in with her gaggle of friends, giggling and laughing.

They entered the class and she pointed to the group of empty seats directly behind my own seat. I felt a swell of hope surged within me. Her eyes locked onto mine as she made her way over. Her arm slowly reached out as she drew nearer, as if she were preparing to wave to me. Instead, as she made her way past my desk, her hand came out and knocked my water bottle over, spilling its contents all over me.

The trail of laughter as I rushed down the hall to the restroom followed me, but none quite as loud as hers.