When I walked out of the high school staffroom, it was like walking into the past. Then I saw the pictures on the wall and realized it was walking into the past. There, in the last set of Grad photos, was my friend Julie who had graduated the year before me.

I wandered the halls, peering in familiar rooms, disoriented. Down the stairwell and out into the locker area where a familiar face stopped my heart. My mistake. We all have them, that one relationship, at least, that we wish we’d never had. There he was sitting with a yearbook on his lap, slim and boyishly charming, chatting with me. The other me. Whatever.

I strode over. “May I see that, Mr. Johnson?”

He blinked, and handed it over. I flipped through the book, and saw a pink epic near the back; the one my friend Beth had written. I flipped again, remembering on what page he’d signed.

Underneath, in my very own unchanged writing I wrote: He’s not worth it. Just don’t.

“Thank you,” I smiled, and returned the book to my other self.