Writer: Erica Phelps

Editors: Amy Li and Alloe Mak

I sit here with you on the grass, making bouquets with garden flowers, when you begin to tell me a story. 

“That time in June when we went to the lake, do you remember? We swam in the crisp, cool water, and you screamed when I splashed at your hair. We forgot to bring  towels, so when we got out, we had to lie in the grass and let the sun dry our bodies. There was a butterfly. And then another, and another. We chased them until the sun set, until your mother was calling for you to come home. Do you remember?”

I don’t. You say it wasn’t long ago. I’m not sure if there is something wrong with my brain, or maybe yours, or if the world has grown so all-consuming that there is no longer anything memorable about a butterfly. 

Nevertheless, I smile and nod. I tell you that I remember and that it was like a dream. 

Your eyes are blue like the bicycle I rode as a child. I often find that I get lost in them, sinking through murky days when I would ride home through the park and to school through the alleyways. 

You are frowning at me, and the judgement of your gaze makes me feel vulnerable, and slightly chilled. 

I blush. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, attempting to conceal the feeling your presence gives me—that I don’t belong here.

“I want to show you something. I need your help,” you say, and I think about how I had forgotten the way your voice sounds like crackling campfires and sharp pencils scratching paper. You rummage through your bag and take out a photograph. 

It is folded in half, and when you straighten it out, there is a harsh crease through the middle. Other than that, the photo is in pristine condition. 

The picture is of a girl in a yellow dress, sitting on a thick tree branch. She is smiling widely, but her grin is obscured by the line left by the fold in the paper. There is an odd familiarity surrounding the girl. I feel as though I knew her some time ago. I feel as though I have memories with her, though I can’t  recall them, as if they were butterflies flying inches from my fingertips. 

I take the photo from your hands and hold it cautiously by its edges. 

“What is this?” I ask, my voice so quiet that I can hardly hear it myself.

You seem to have no trouble deciphering my murmur. 

“I found it under my bed.” You shift closer to me, your breath like a field breeze in my ear. “Do you see the tree in the background?”

I nod.

“I can’t help but feel like I’ve been there before. Do you know what I mean?”

I do. I most certainly do.

“I was wondering if you’d like to help me find it?” 

I look at you—at your eyes. I think again of my bicycle, and how I don’t know where it is anymore.

I say yes.

It takes us less than two hours to find the tree. For two hours we ride our bikes, turning down roads where the sun casts pretty shadows of trees, down roads where things simply feel right. 

It is impossible to feel the strain of two hours when we see the tree. It is alone in a field of yellow flowers, standing declaratively, as if demanding to be seen. 

We park our bikes on the side of the road and push our way through the thick tangles of flowers to the old, thick trunk. Gently, I run my hands along its roughness, imagining the tiny atoms left behind by past touches jumping into my fingertips. I look up and watch the leaves above flutter in a silent breeze. Its presence feels like a song I used to love but had forgotten the name of. 

“Is this it?” You ask, and I am jolted out of my trance. You hand me the picture of the girl on the tree.

I glance at it quickly and hand it back, smiling shyly. “How should I know?”

You look confused. “Well, you’re the one in the picture.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“The girl in the picture. It’s you.”

With a heavy, indescribable sadness, I realize that you are right. The sadness seeps its way through my body, and suddenly my legs are too tired to move and I am begging the yellow flowers to tangle themselves around my ankles and never let me leave.

A butterfly dances over my head, lightly brushing my hair. You point at it and laugh, your bicycle-blue eyes lighting up with joy. You skip after it, calling for me to join.

I wish I would. I wish I wanted to. I really do. 

It’s silly—and almost naive—how time is told in a circle when it runs in a line.

I leave you running after the butterfly, and force my heavy legs to walk away.