The First Thing She Said: "You Still Have That Style"

At the airport arrivals hall, you're wearing that three-quarter-sleeve turtleneck knit, waiting for a

friend you haven't seen in three years.

Her flight lands. People pour out. You stand on your tiptoes, scanning for her face. And then you

see herstillthe same, walking with that brisk energy, pushing her suitcase fast. She spots you,

lets go of her luggage, and rushes over for a full, solid hug.

After the hug, she pulls back and looks you up and down.

Then she says: "You still have that style.This—three-quarter sleeves,turtleneck-so clean."

You smile. You know she's not just complimenting the clothes. She's saying: You're still you. Three

years have passed, and many things have changed. But you haven't. You still know what looks

good on you. You still know who you are.

You sit down at the airport cafe and order two cups of hot tea. She asks how you've been. You tell

her some things, hold back others. She listens carefully, her finger tracing the rim of her cup. She's

wearing an oversized coat with very long sleeves—they cover her hands completely.

She says: "I still can't break the habit-always wanting to hide myself. Wrapped up in big clothes,

feeling safe."

You glance at your own sleeves-that bare strip of wrist, clean, open, unhidden.

You reach over and place your hand on her sleeve: "It's okay. Take your time. I used to be like that

too."

She smiles. She pushes her sleeve up a little, revealing a small strip of her own wrist.

Some reunions don't need grand declarations.It's just sitting together, drinking tea, letting each

other see-you're still here.I'm still here. We're both still on our way to becoming ourselves.

You look down at yourself. That three-quarter-sleeve turtleneck knit—clean, quiet. Like you. Like

your friendship. Not too much. Not too little. Just right.