I hear her. She says, laughing at me, Olivia is so easily embarrassed.


She, turns to another, to me, says, We were talking of you, Olivia, and the strange family tree in my text book, of mine and my brother’s goodbyes, our yellow love letters, stuck between its pages.



And blushing and kissed.



She would bite her bottom lip (Her top lip, a perfect cupid's bow, says Anna, mimicking me, drunk and talkative, a favourite topic of conversation).



Of old, old love, for her, it was my own and it was not encouraged.