He's known me since college. That's where we met. He was studying architecture, I was working on a transfer degree. I didn't know what I wanted in life. I knew what I didn't want, but not what I wanted.
I shook and stuttered and fidgeted my way pathetically through a shared class we had. I showed up early everyday. One day, so did he.
"Are you alright?" I was sitting on the stone walkway, reading. Writing. Immersing myself in my thoughts so I wouldn't cry and try to run away. He sat, cross legged, in front of me. He didn't wear three-piece suits then. He wasn't so serious. Sometimes I think of asking, but choose not to.
"I'm fine, I'm fine." Not stuttering, but still repetitious. He continued to stare at me.
"You shake a lot."
"I'm nervous… a lot."
"School. People. People." He laughs. Small. Chuckle. Borderline to his future behavior. I guess it started all there.
"People aren't bad." I looked up from my book. And pointed at myself. Like it was needed. It wasn't.
"And yet you're talking to me." He was twirling his scarf around in his hands. A thick, smart looking thing that belonged at Ivy League colleges. Smart places. With suits. He draped the scarf around my neck. Stood up.
"You looked cold." He goes inside before I can thank him. We don't have class together… yet. I hold the scarf around my neck.
He transferred to an Ivy League school after that. Never asked for his scarf back. I never thought to return it. So I kept it. And wore it every winter.
Then he started working where I worked. I forgot that the first day the temperature dropped. It was tradition to wear the scarf on cold days. So I wore it. And I forgot about him and the scarf and how we used to know each other.
He remembered the scarf first. Then the memory. Then me.
A/N: Romantic, eh?
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