The Good Old Memories

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Right now, I'm about to tell you how I lost my best friend.

We were nine years old, in grade four, and every teacher since kindergarten tried to separate us to the best of their abilities, but their efforts were in vain. Amaia and I were like a single soul divided into two bodies―I know it's not a remarkable comparison, and nor is it funny in any way, but please, bear with me: this is more important than you think. As I was saying, we were inseparable.

Every weekend we had a sleepover. On Monday evenings, we went swimming together. On Wednesday afternoons, we had a ceramic class together. And on Friday mornings, we got a ride to school together. We were also very close neighbours: we lived in the same complex, making it easier for us to hang out. When we had math homework, we would get together and solve the problems on the sofa while nibbling on crackers and cheese. It didn't matter which house we stayed at as long as we were together.

I had a lot of space at home, but she had a beautiful garden with lots of flowers in the springtime. My happiest memories consisted of me and her drawing tulips and butterflies in her garden, surrounded by the smell of sunshine and the chirps of happy robins in the trees. I'm telling you; we were inseparable. She was my best friend.

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