We were seven and eight, and though the world still seemed big then, it couldn’t compare with your presence in my life.

How young I was, how foolish. How naively courageous.

To think that I could dictate to someone older than me, “So whenever we learn something, we’ll teach it to each other, that way we both learn it twice. Ok?”

A scheming ploy to further my own edge when comparing with the other boys on who could get the most stars from the teacher.

And to think that you would agree to this young boy’s demanding request.

Then, we became friends.

Not a day went by where you did not teach me something and I did not teach you in turn.

I enjoyed the days as they went by, rushing home to eagerly get to my homework so I could demand your time and attention. And you, I think, hid it well that you equally found our mutual time together.

From you, I learned that math was far bigger than the symbols I see on the calculator. From me, you understood the reasons why our studies were designed this way.

“Today, it was the model of an atom!”

Each time a new subject came up, what delighted me the most wasn’t the fact that I was learning anymore, but that we were spending time together. That made each and every topic new and brilliant, exhilarating and beautiful. Enthralled was my attention as you described things I could not yet comprehend, amateurishly describing concepts you had not yet wrapped your mind around.

And then we got older, and the question “Why should I learn this or care?” leapt like a defensive hornet out on a day that had not been kind to me.

She paused. I paused. A lengthy pause. So indeterminably long and drawn out, further agonizing my apologetic fear, my apprehended thoughts. Why, oh why, oh why?

But you were kind.

“That is a good question,” you said.

“Let’s both figure out what use this can be in the future?” You asked.

I think it was that precise moment I knew where my heart had irrevocably gone. You turned my moment of weakness, anger, and frustration due to no act of yours, brushed it aside and made it another reason for both of us to spend more time together.

In that moment, my mind was blank and could only acquiesce.

“I agree.”

It became our motto.

Our daily hangouts became led with that exploration, that ritual of giving knowledge itself purpose. What use, do you think, was the intent of teaching children the excellent ways of understanding how much area there exists in a circle? Why study a battle that was won over 400 years ago? For what purpose could there exist in knowing how volcanoes work when we don’t even live near one?

What use, in your opinion, was the educator’s intent for educating thee in thus?

And when the two exploratively creative young minds would crash together and dream there was nothing beyond reach — only that which they had not yet set their attention towards.

It happened that one day, it was your turn to teach me and you were suddenly, inexplicably shy. Well, I say inexplicable in the moment, but obvious in hindsight.

“Um, today’s topic may be embarrassing.”

“What do you mean, partner?” I asked.

“It involves how babies are made.”

“I agree.” I immediately said.

You were surprised. “But, I haven’t even asked you why it is important, partner.”

I was bemused. “Do you really need to ask?”

But you were adamant. “Why,” you stressed, “do you think this is important?”

“…because it’s something we all asked at least once?” I questioned in confusion. “Come on, you really think I wouldn’t consider this something important to know?”

Thinking back, your wide eyes were clearly glowering at me. But I was too caught up in the thrill of discovery, of discovering the truth that had been hidden, so much that I was utterly blind to the truth that was in front of me.

“Never mind.”

You were right, however. It was embarrassing for us.

This went on, and on, and on.

We began learning more things throughout the days, and being forced to select specific topics for review to maximize the allotted time we had. You taught me how the water cycle worked in the environment and I re-explained to you the intricacies of how Grecian politics influenced their expansion.

In time, I think, I learned to guess the reasons behind the topic you selected.

“Today, the topic is about volcanoes.”

“Volcanoes?” I asked. Surely she was studying physics?

“Volcanoes,” she confirmed.

“What about volcanoes?” I probed gently, “I thought we both covered all of this in junior high.”

“Volcanoes, and, um, their eruption.”

Your voice was scared. I didn’t yet understand why, but even then I knew when you were scared.

“What about their eruption?” I asked kindly.

But you avoided my gaze. “The kind where it’s even worse, because, well, it’s not expected? Because it’s been happening all underground, and no one is the wiser? Those kinds of … eruptions.”

“Ah,” I remember nodding sagely, “Don’t you worry, partner. I remember double-checking that in junior high. There’s no need to worry at all for we do not live anywhere near a fault-line!” I fully understood then that it was clear. She had developed an irrational fear, and that explained her pained look and unwillingness to meet my eyes.

How naive I was. How foolish.

How utterly contemptible my courageous brashness in assuming that you of all people would bring into our discussions a topic that stemmed from a reason such as irrational fear.

Meanwhile, as the demanding nature of growing up sank its parasitic fangs into our time together, our hangouts lessened, in turn causing them to be even more precious to me. This meant that you and I cherry-picked each topic we discussed with excruciating care.

You didn’t try again, until two years later.

“Today, the topic is muscular dystrophy.”

“Why is it important, partner?” I asked reflexively, and then flinched as it sunk in. It sunk in and buried itself deep, dredging up the curious topics and arranging them into a discernible shape that even my intellect could construe it.

“Ah,” I took a deep breath. “I see. Because sometimes, we are too blind about the demons another person is wrestling with.”

“I agree.”

You sobbed.

Then, the world seemed so insignificant in its size and grandeur compared to the remaining time I had with you.

I began visiting you in the hospital, your hellish battleground.

For you, I was your true medic. I brought you comfort and solace, familiarity and a sense of home. My topics changed then, for through me, I was determined for you to live a life of normalcy.

And through you, I understood your will to live and carry on.

“Today, the topic is gene therapy.”

“I agree.” I immediately said.

“Oh? And why is it important, partner?”

“Obviously because it’s a medical procedure, it’s your next thing, isn’t it?” I answered matter-of-factly.

“They say it’s got the best chance to work, partner.” You said cheerfully. “And I’m tired of all these treatments giving me hormonal imbalances and the cramps. I wonder if this is what being pregnant feels like. Maybe I’m becoming a mom and my baby is this stupid illness.”

“Well, you’ll know someday,” I winked at you. “You’ll beat your illness and then live on to become a great mom, with a great baby!”

You grabbed my sleeve then, but I mistook your weak tugging for tiredness.

“You think so?” You asked me softly.

“Of course, partner.” I smiled encouragingly, embarrassed all of a sudden.

It was the first time you’ve smiled like that in months.

It was the last time your muscles worked enough for you to smile again.

I was allowed to see you because your family acknowledged me as your most important friend.

I sat there, holding your weak hand. Looking at you, I still saw my partner. At first, I didn’t know what to say.

Then I leaned in close and whispered.

“Today, the topic is reincarnation.”

I wonder if you knew.

“As for why it’s important, well, some religions that believe in reincarnation believe that you get to choose your next life.”

I saw your eyelids twitch as you struggled to keep them open, their muscles already too weak to support themselves.

“I’m going to have to live out a really long and full life for my partner,” I continued, “So that when I follow you someday, I’ll really have a lot of topics to teach you about.”

I squeezed her hand. “So. If you do get to choose, will you wait for me? So I can teach you a lot again, and bring you up to speed. Partner.”

I brought your hand to my forehead, closing my eyes, hoping to cover up the fact that my vision was blurred.

“I agree.”

The heaviest of sighs forced out by the softest of final heaves.