You barely remember making them.
You were like ten—sitting on the floor, tongue poking out in concentration while you threaded beads onto string.
She let you.
Sat there, patient, letting you mess up, redo it, add too many colors.
You handed them to her like they were priceless.
She took them like they were.
And never took them off.
⸻
You’re sitting with her group.
A circle of studs—loud, joking, passing comments back and forth.
You’re quieter.
Still getting used to being around them.
But you fit—
because of her.
You’re half listening—
until someone grabs her wrist.
“Yo— nigga what are these?”
You look up.
Your stomach drops slightly.
Because—
those.
Those bracelets.
Still there.
Bright. mismatched. childish.
Completely out of place on her.
She doesn’t pull her hand away.
Just shrugs.
“Nothing.”
The girl squints.
“Nothing? These look like they came from a kindergarten art class.”
A couple of them laugh.
Your face heats up immediately.
You look down.
Because—
yeah.
They kinda did.
You weren’t expecting that to still exist.
Let alone be noticed.
“…they’re old.”
She adds. Calm. Unbothered.
“How old?”
A pause. Then—
“Long time.”
The girl raises an eyebrow.
“Why you still wearing them then?”
Silence.
Just for a second.
Then—
“Because I want to.”
Simple. Final.
The tone shifts just slightly. Enough that no one pushes it.
“Alright, damn.”
The girl lets go of her wrist. Conversation moves on. Like nothing happened.
⸻
But you’re stuck on it.
Your eyes flick back to her wrist.
The beads.
Still there.
Still on her.
“…You still have those?”
You say it quietly.
She looks at you.
Like it’s obvious.
“Yeah.”
“…why.”
A beat.
She leans back in her chair slightly. Eyes still on you.
“You gave them to me.”
Your chest tightens a little.
“…I was ten.”
“And?”
“They’re ugly.”
“They’re not.”
“They literally are.”
“They’re not.”
You huff quietly.
“…You could’ve taken them off at some point.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“Why would I.”