I met Andrea in our first year of middle school. Or rather, I was assigned to sit beside her on the first day, and from that moment on, she became a part of my daily life.
Andrea always wore her hair in a ponytail, and no matter the weather, no matter the season, that never changed. It was as if her neatly tied hair was a symbol of her personality—organized yet somewhat playful, practical but never dull. I don't know when it started, but at some point, I began to associate that ponytail with comfort, as if seeing it reassured me that my world was in order.
We weren't anything special. Just classmates. Just best friends.
Andrea wasn't bad at studying, but she wasn't particularly good either. She was the type who would struggle with equations but somehow score full marks in essays. I, on the other hand, had a reputation for being smart. Not because I studied hard, but because numbers and formulas made sense to me in a way that they didn't for most people.
"You're like an old man," Andrea once said, pouting as she stared at my perfect math score. "I bet your soul is actually eighty years old."
"Should I start carrying a cane?" I smirked, tapping my pencil against her desk. "Maybe grow a beard?"
Andrea burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the classroom like a wind chime. "No way! You'd look ridiculous!"
Moments like these happened every day. Maybe that's why I never thought much about them.