This is my favorite memory of you.

I’m sitting on your bed when there’s a knock at your door. Your mother doesn’t know I’m over, and it’s been awhile since she’s seen me. She walks in, already speaking to you, and she stops when she sees me. She doesn’t smile right away, even though I do, and her eyes rake my head. She doesn’t look at me the same since I cut my hair. It’s been nearly a year but she still tells me she’s not used to it. She smiles as she says it, eyes boring into my curls, but I can hear something else: why would you do it? Your hair was so pretty. It was so long. She doesn’t say these things, but I hear them, can almost see them racing across her mind. Am I being paranoid? You stand aside with your eyes down until she addresses you, finally remembering whatever it was she came in to say in the first place.  Before she leaves us, she says again she can’t believe I cut it. She says it's so different. She asks if I like it like this. I say that I do, and she looks at me kindly, but like she doesn’t understand. I look at you and laugh, trying to break the tension. You respond by telling me it’s nice, that it suits me, that you really like it. You smile. But I can’t help feeling like you don’t quite look either.