HOW I REMEMBER IT

This is where the world began and ended every day — a room too small for dreams but big enough to hold them anyway. The sunlight came in sideways through dusty blinds, painting stripes across piles of clothes, notebooks, and teenage defiance. The skateboard leaned against the bed like a promise to escape. The book stayed open on the floor, mid-thought, like it knew it would never be finished. JUL 21 ’94 — the year smelled like sweat, dust, and possibility.

They weren’t thinking about forever — just about who got the bigger half. The sun burned down on the corner store glass, melting the popsicle faster than they could argue. Behind them, a rack of chips, a lottery sign, and the hum of a fridge pretending to be air conditioning. It was the kind of day that felt endless until it wasn’t. Sweat, sugar, and the beginning of nostalgia — still years away from being understood. JUL 21 ’94 — 12:17 PM. The hour where friendship tasted like artificial cherry and freedom cost $1.25.

That summer, everything felt like it could last forever — the heat, the laughter, the way time stretched between two kids with nowhere to be. We didn’t talk about love because we didn’t know that’s what it was. We talked about colours, and music, and what we’d do if we ruled the world. The sidewalk burned through our sneakers, sprinklers hissed in the distance, and the world felt brand new — just for us. JUL 21 ’94 — 1:04 PM. A love story told in skipped classes and sunburned shoulders.

We sat on the rails like they led somewhere that mattered. I told her all the things I was going to do — build something huge, fix everything broken, maybe even save the world. She didn’t say much, just nodded and drew lines in the dirt with a stick, like she was tracing the future I couldn’t see. The train never came, but time did. Years later, I still hear the echo of those promises — small, golden, and unbearably honest. JUL 21 ’94 — 2:23 PM. Dreams were easier when the world fit between two rails.

We didn’t plan it. The knife was just there, the wood was soft, and silence needed something to do. So we carved — shaky lines, a promise written in splinters. A + M. It looked permanent then, like everything else did at fifteen. The kiss that followed wasn’t perfect, but neither were we. It was clumsy, quick, and completely holy in its own way — the first time the world felt too small to hold what was happening. JUL 21 ’94 — 4:01 PM. The moment love stopped being a word and became a mark.

We found a disposable camera floating near the pool’s edge — half-used, sun-faded, someone else’s summer halfway captured. We took the last shot. No plan, no pose, just laughter and dripping hair and the thrill of knowing we’d leave a piece of ourselves behind. Some stranger would develop it weeks later and wonder who we were. Maybe they’d think we looked happy. Maybe they’d be right. JUL 21 ’94 — 4:49 PM. Before selfies, there were accidents that became proof we existed.

We thought we were geniuses — shoving playing cards into our bike spokes so they’d sound like engines. The louder the rattle, the faster we felt. My buddy swore the Queen of Hearts brought luck with girls, like the universe kept score in superstition and soda cans. We rode until the sun dipped, engines made of cardboard and belief, kings of a kingdom that only existed on summer afternoons. JUL 21 ’94 — 5:08 PM. The world was small, dumb, and perfect.

We’d drag those abandoned shopping carts out from behind the old video store, turn cracked pavement into a stage, and boredom into a movie. She wanted to be an actress — said the world would know her name someday. I just wanted to keep her laughing. She stood on that cart like she owned the sky, arms wide, light hitting her hair like the end of a film I didn’t know I was in. I was tying my laces, pretending not to look — but I remember every second. JUL 21 ’94 — 6:02 PM. Some kids dreamt of growing up. We just wanted to stay in the credits a little longer.

It happened between ketchup stains and the hum of a broken fluorescent light. She went to the washroom, and when she came back, my tray had a note — folded twice, hearts drawn like a crime scene. “Ashley ♥ — 5', 58¢.” That was love at fifteen. Not roses, not grand gestures. Just a half-eaten burger, pocket change, and handwriting that made the world feel enormous. JUL 21 ’94 — 6:37 PM. McDonald’s smelled like forever that night.

Before I learned how to talk to girls, I spoke fluent arcade. Every joystick was a battlefield, every quarter a prayer. I didn’t even notice when they started noticing me — too busy chasing pixels that felt more alive than I did. That “Out of Order” sign hit harder than any heartbreak later would. The end of the game, the end of being just a kid. JUL 21 ’94 — 7:11 PM. Neon buzzed like static in my chest, and I swear I can still smell the mix of soda, dust, and electricity.

It’s funny how forever can fit inside a driveway. The windows fogged, the radio still humming some half-forgotten love song from the credits. She laughed about something I already forgot, waved like she always did — that slow, sleepy wave that said “see you tomorrow” but meant “don’t forget this.” I watched her walk to the door, headlights painting her in gold, and for a moment, the whole world felt paused. JUL 21 ’94 — 9:47 PM. We didn’t know it then, but that was the last summer before everything changed.

The streets always felt different after 10 PM — like the world belonged to whoever was brave enough to still be out. I remember the hum of the streetlight, the smell of asphalt cooling, the way my shadow looked taller than me. Somewhere behind those windows, parents trusted the night to teach us what they couldn’t. I wasn’t running from trouble — just stretching the edges of childhood one last time before the lights went out. JUL 21 ’94 — 10:02 PM. Home was only a few houses away, but freedom lived in that empty street.