Being alive meant being free.

Being alive at eight was eating cookies made by mom and wearing ponytail and pink dresses. It was running around the house with a red cape pretending to be superman. It was colouring books and watching cartoons. It was having a bedtime at seven and pretending to be asleep to sneak off and watch the rerun of Tom&Jerry. Then, you came by our house one day, gift us my favorite kind of cookies, and told me your name was Mark. 

Being alive at age ten was when you held my hands and guided me through the rain. The sky poured heavily that day and we ran barefoot with smiles plastered on our faces. You looked back at me with a grin as the white flash against the sky and my heart skipped for the very first time.

(You purposely opened your notes for me so I could copy them down because I didn't do my homework. Mark, that was when we were fifteen, and I felt alive again.)

Being alive at fifteen was copying your notes and stealing glances at each other before exchanging silly notes. It was young, like the flowers we picked during our walk back home. We shouldn't have, because it withered away like our passion. 

Being alive meant I was seventeen holding a shot of tequila you handed to me. You told me it was okay to drink because we were seventeen. Because we were seventeen, you turn that into an excuse and changed. Your shirt smelt of nicotine and your breath tasted bitter.