My mind doesn’t think like that. It still thinks we’re friends. It still reaches out for the second coffee mug. It still thinks fondly of that animation we watched together. It still absently makes me wear that chain you bought me for my birthday. It still thinks we’re friends. And it still adds your name to the recipient list of collective texts I send. It still recognizes your name as only your name. Nobody else can claim it from my mind. It’s your name. It still thinks we’re friends. And it still holds a grudge over the incomplete autograph you wrote me when we finished school. It still holds you to the promise of completing it later. It still digs up your name when I desperately need someone to cry with. It still expects you to show up when I’m sick. It still sometimes hopes on you, when I run out of change for the rickshaw. It still thinks you’re my friend. My mind doesn’t know. It doesn’t know. And it makes me cry that it doesn’t know. It still thinks you’re my friend. It still plans to build that underground tunnel from my house to yours. It still wants that Singaporean rice. It still thinks you’re my friend. It still thinks. It still thinks. And yours… Has ceased to think.