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We met in my garden when I was eight. He was nine, and had sprouts in his hair. That summer was bikes, scraped knees, and feet on hot concrete.Next year was third grade. Math, handwriting, and the zoo. Crushes, of which we had none. That summer was popsicles, walks, mowing the lawn in the rain, and the park.Then it was fourth grade. Mysterious bruises and red eyes. The first time I saw him angry. I saw less of him that year.Fifth grade came next. He told me about his parents. Tears, hugs, and my best friend. More bruises. Summer brought a dog, Lewis.By the time we were in sixth grade, he told me he would never have a crush on anyone. Neither would I. We were aromantic. His dad left scars on his legs. That summer carried an anxiety attack and flowers.Seventh grade was the year I realized that we were too old for our age. Bad grades, bad language, bad, bad boys. We started smoking. The world turned fantastically hazy and purple.Eighth grade was next.