For the longest time, we sat staring at each other, and our silence was like none I had ever experienced before. Instead of the quiet peace I was used to, it was tense and fractured, spilling over with unspoken words. His fingers were playing with his necklace, and under the moonlight, a thin scratch shone against the black sheen of his stone. The boy caught me staring, and I turned away, embarrassed.

“You must not have many friends if you’re so eager to talk to me,” he noted dryly.  I flushed; it hurt to think he pitied me, and I quickly brushed the thought aside.

 “And yet,” he mused, “would you say we’re even friends?” There was a challenge in his eyes.

“Then we must be two strangers who just happen to enjoy each other’s company,” I quipped, a little angry at his condescending tone.

“Better strangers than friends,” he told me cryptically. “Strangers can leave each other without lingering feelings.”

“We weren’t strangers before,” I said quietly. The boy stiffened.

“You wouldn’t know,” he said bitterly, “You can’t even remember my name.” The truth stung, and I felt a few tears threaten to leave me.

“And you dare say that you’ve never forgotten about me?” I asked thickly.

 “Never worrying about you, and never forgetting you, are two different things,” he reminded me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you when I should’ve been.” The boy closed his eyes, and memories floated in front of my eyes. There’d been a car crash, one that had left his mother unable to do anything, and mine dead. I couldn’t remember my own mother’s death, but I could remember the boy’s tears. He hadn’t screamed; he’d only cried. I was sure I had cried too, but never in front of the boy.

“Do you remember the first day we met?” he asked me, his eyes still closed. “You didn’t talk to me, or even look at me. You just went with my mother into the gardens and started weeding.”

“I remember,” I said, “You wanted to help, but instead, you hid behind the bushes. I saw you trip over the hose.”

“You helped me that day,” he told me, “My mother was inside, so you kissed my cuts better and hugged me for her.” I nodded, a little saddened by the past.

“I suppose it was luck that helped me find you again,” he said wistfully, as he glanced at the clock. It was past midnight. The boy got up and shouldered his backpack.

"How did you know it was me?” I asked. He leaned down towards me and took a deep breath. His breath tickled my mouth, and he kissed me gently on the lips.

“Because even back then, your kisses tasted like coffee.”