We were two poor students with wanderlust in our eyes and barely enough
in our pockets.
London was grey that year --- or maybe it was us.
Alex was tall. Handsome in that offhand way.
His name --- Alexander Paul Taylor --- belonged in novels.
His accent, pristine public school. His gait, slightly awkward.
Cheltenham Boys' School.
Father, British army. German lineage.
Mother, Mexican, with Spanish blood.
He was a scholarship boy in a world of generational wealth.
Brilliant --- the kind who barely opened a book and still aced every
exam.
Math. Stats. Logic. Precision.
But he felt everything.
He didn't belong there, so he made his own orbit.

His best friend was Mark --- "Marky Mark."
Brilliant, tortured.
And Yaz --- a nerdy Sri Lankan boy with a name too long for the boys'
tongues.
So they shortened it.
All outsiders.
All kindreds.

Alex was goofy, reckless, insecure.
Just like me.
Beautiful, brilliant --- but neither of us knew what to do with our own
light.
So we wore masks of mischief.
And flung ourselves into adventure.

When we went to Paris, it was on student vouchers.
£1 tickets.
London University had given us thick directory books --- magical tomes
of discounts.
Free theatre. Cheap food. Cut-rate ice cream.
Now, students are handed debt.
We were handed possibilities.

In Paris, we wandered the Metro,
ate sandwich au fromage on stone steps,
licked flaky croissants from our fingers,
walked through rain-slicked alleyways,
the smell of rotisserie chicken and brioche thick in the night air.

We didn't take photos.
We didn't need to.
It's all still there ---
in the backs of our minds,
in the smell of train diesel and butter,
in the ache of youth that knows it's temporary.

When we returned, it was like falling out of a dream.

He found two shopping trolleys near Kensington High Street.
"Get in," he said.
So I did.

He pushed me through the glossy dark of the city ---
me, a goddess in a wire chariot;
him, my reckless knight.
Past iron-gated Georgian homes.
Past glowing cafes and wine-drunk couples.
Past a ticket officer who didn't stop us.
We were too fast.
Too alive.

We laughed until our ribs hurt.

Then Chippenham. His hometown.
He lived in a garret room, sloped ceilings, old leaded windows.
We curled up like animals.
Watched old films.
Kissed with quiet desperation.
The air smelled like linen and winter.

Later, he came to my home.
Met my siblings.
They giggled behind doors.
I was mortified.
But also proud.
I let him in ---
to my chaos,
my culture,
my complicated, too-large family.

We walked to Cuddington Golf Course.
He found a hill.
Rolled me down it.
My long skirt flared like a parachute.
I screamed.
He laughed.
The golfers stared.
We didn't care.

We weren't in their world.
We were ours.
Wild.
Tender.
Slightly tragic.

We didn't last.
We weren't meant to.

But in that brief, cracked-open moment of young love,
we were infinite.