The scar you left

She was exactly like me, somebody who understood me and didn’t shun me for the weird things I do and perform on myself as a last resort. I came back from the thrift store with a big brown paper bag in my hand, walked to the nearest bus stop, and sat on the bench. The smell of cigarettes clung to the air and was impossible to ignore. I looked to my right—there was a skinny, pale girl with hair as blue as the wide Pacific. She looked about my age, maybe a little older. She turned her head to face mine, steering her eyes away from the heavy traffic. “Want a hit?” she said through the cloud of smoke rising from her mouth. I quickly shook my head, turned away, and looked at the ground. “I don’t smoke.” She continued to stare at me. “You’re a pretty girl. How old are you?” I looked back towards her. “I’m 19, you?” She chuckled and took another puff of the cigarette before answering, “I’m 22. I remember when I was 19.” We both took in each other’s appearance before concluding we were pretty similar. “My name’s Yosemite. What’s your name?” She threw her cigarette on the ground and stepped on it to put it out. “I am Katie, nice to meet you.” She smiled warmly at me and tapped away on her phone for a moment, then held it up towards my face; it had cracks and chips of glass at the corners so deep and present I could see the internal circuits. “This is my phone number. I would love to hang out with someone as cool-looking as you. I need more friends anyway.” I stared at the screen in shock for a moment, then rushed to input the number into my phone; I wasn’t going to miss a chance to make more friends. Yosemite stood up from the bench and stretched. “Listen, I was only here to smoke my cigarette for my lunch break; hit me up, though.” I waved goodbye to her and watched her leave before looking back at the number in my phone. What a good memory.