We don't forget memories, not really. We just tend to let them fall from our grip. They're always there, at the back of our minds, some just out of reach.

There they thrive and dance, interspersing and evolving. A fond memory of a backyard barbeque tangos with a nature documentary, creating flying tropical burgers chasing after screaming children (in a non-traumatising way). A long lost imaginary friend crashes into a failed exam, creating an army of paper men with red pens far mightier than the ultra supreme mega rainbow sword of impending doom.

There are clouds made of chocolate mice, a purple man tranforming into a translucent sock, cartoon network versus nickelodeon battles. The Jelly-bean king sits upon his throne of eternal angst and surveys his kingdom of chaos that is slightly on fire.

The memories are different now, old friends still survive in the back of our minds. We may not remember them, but they're there, and always will be. They're just a bit preoccupied at the moment as the blueberry pies of awesomeness was recently stolen by Killer Magical Rainbow Dolphins From Mars.

After a night out, we were allowed to muck around at a friend’s house. It was my older brother, his two friends and I. Nice guys. Hours passed us by. Full of food and tongue-tied, we sat in a bedroom in each our own corners, thoroughly occupied. All lazy-eyed and sleep-deprived - best described as braindead. Back of my neck on the foot of the bed, solving a Rubik’s with tar in my head. We jump at the buzz from receiving a text, then I slump back down into my spot on the carpet. My brother gets up for the toilet.

Boy 1 on the bed lets out a smug chuckle. Boy 2 spins his gaming chair to ask him, what’ll we say? Just wait, Boy 1 says. All the while, they’re both on their phones, tapping away. They’re messing around on a group chat, I guess, but I want to find out what the jokes are about. I ask Boy 1. He grins, turning his phone around.

There’s a group chat with other boys from their grade and a picture of me where I sit, cupping my face. The cube hides behind a convenient bed frame. If my eyesight is right, Boy 1 has claimed that I am -what I can only describe as- erm... servicing them both for the night.

Boys can be stupid, right?

Well, I’m pleased to say that the only “service” Boy 1 got that day was a nice taste of Rubik’s cube straight to the face. After that, it was all fun and games; both boys said sorry and I had my way.

Some protests can be held without wasting air - with words, I wouldn't know where I'd begin. It was cool after that, though. Nobody cared. We were all back to normal when my brother came in.

It was like jumping into an oblivion of space and time for fun and just hoping I wouldn't break if I crashed.

I'd fall 150 meters a second for her, and then everything would be floating for a while.

And she'd smile, and I'd fall 300 meters.

I'd spend a day away, and the thought of her would make me fall about 200 meters.

Inside jokes? 250 m. Smiles between classes? 100. Hugs? 100. Wearing her sweater? 400.

She'd laugh, and gosh, that was the worst. I'd be falling faster than I could think. 500 meters a second. Faster than I could grab onto anything, scrambling for some sense of security. But a part of me liked the freefalling, the wild way I hurtled myself into a void and just hoped, only hoped that she would catch me. Even the chance was so low and I was falling faster by the second, there is a unrealistically hopeful heart that we all have. Despite every single odd, mine continued to fall at about 500 meters a second.