We met in elementary school, when life was just beginning to teach us about the world. Alice was the girl who always had something to say, the one who laughed louder than everyone else and made even the most boring days seem interesting. I was quieter, but with her everything became easy: talking, laughing, sharing recess and the secrets that only children believe last forever.

Over the years, routine and choices gradually pulled us apart. She went her way, I went mine, but somehow there was always something that reminded me of her: a song, a phrase, an ordinary afternoon. And every time her name came up, a part of me returned to those school hallways where everything was simpler and more genuine.

Fate brought us together again, as adults, without notebooks or uniforms. She had changed, of course, but she still had that same curious gaze, that same way of illuminating a conversation without even realizing it.

As we talked, I realized that it wasn't all nostalgia. There was something more, something that was always there, waiting for the moment to surface. And although I never said it, I understood it silently: there are people who leave a mark on you from the very beginning, and Alice was one of them.