I almost had a blackout the day I saw you in the supermarket, two months ago.
You did not see me. But I saw you and staggered. My heart skipped beats and sweat covered my skin all at once. It was a miracle your eyes didn’t land on me.
You did not see me. But I saw you and staggered. My heart skipped beats and sweat covered my skin all at once. It was a miracle your eyes didn’t land on me.
Ken Asamoah and I hardly agreed on anything. We were back in Katon Senior High School. We were classmates, but I disliked Ken because he was the class prefect and my name was always on his list of class talkative.
I was still a student and green as the grasses of Afram planes. I was one of two interns you had picked to work in your newsroom, Public Agenda.
You lost the sense of what it felt like to be young and silly because all at once, you had to always be on guard— protecting your heart from the terrors of the day—fears, peers, teasing— so you wouldn’t get hurt.
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