Leila, one of my oldest friends, is sitting on my bed. Because she was a grade behind me in school, I feel it’s only right give her far-reaching advice based on the mistakes I’ve already made the year prior.
She is wearing my bathrobe and a pair fuzzy purple socks. This is how I always think of her–wrapped in layers, drinking something warm, preparing for the hibernation months.
Once, when I was running late to meet her at my house and walked her through the steps of breaking inside my front door, I came home to find she had put the tea kettle on for us both, found a pair of slippers to wear, and watered all my plants.
“Don’t even think about the future right now,” I say, “just focus on working on you.”
“You’re right,” she says, taking a sip of tea. “You’re so right.”
“But who knows. A year from now, I might contradict myself.”