THE BOY WHO KNEW MY NAME

The first time I met him, I promised I would never forget him. I was eight years old. At eight, promises felt permanent. I sat underneath a large mango tree behind the children's centre, struggling to make a bracelet from blue and white strips of paper. A boy sat beside me. He didn't say hello. He didn't ask what I was making. He just watched. I looked at him. Then at my bracelet. Then back at him. “You're staring,” I said. He shrugged. “You're making it badly.” I gasped. “Then make your own!” For the first time, he smiled. It was small. Almost invisible. “My name is Kian,” he said. I frowned. “That's a strange name.” “So is Amara.” I immediately stopped. “How do you know my name?” He pointed at the little name tag hanging around my neck. “Oh.” I looked away, embarrassed. I picked up another strip of paper. “Do you want one?” He looked at the bracelet. “Okay.” I carefully folded the paper, determined to make it perfect this time. When I finished, I tied it around his wrist. “There.” He looked down at it. “Don't lose it,” I said. “I won't.” “And don't forget me.” He looked at me. “I won't.” I smiled. “I won't forget you either.” Twelve years later. “AMARA!” I woke up with a pillow hitting my face. I screamed. “Zee!” “Wake up!” “I'M AWAKE!” “You've been saying that for five minutes!” I pulled the pillow away and glared at my roommate. Zainab stood beside my bed with her hands on her waist, looking like she was personally offended by my existence. “What time is it?” I asked sleepily. “Eight twenty.” My eyes widened. “Eight—” “Exactly.” “Zee!” “I've been calling you!” “You could have poured water on me!” “And destroy my good character? Never.” I jumped out of bed. My slippers were nowhere to be found. My phone was under my pillow. One lecture note was underneath Zee's bed. And somehow, I had managed to lose my pen while still inside the room. My new semester was already going wonderfully. “Amara, move!” “I'M MOVING!” I grabbed my bag and rushed out. I had made three promises to myself the night before. This semester would be different. No unnecessary drama. No getting involved in everybody's problems. And definitely— no boys. I had enough problems already. I just didn't know that before the day ended, someone would look at me like he'd been waiting years to see me. Someone who would call my name like he'd never forgotten it. “Amara.” And the strangest part? I wouldn't remember him at all.