We were twelve. And then we were thirteen and fourteen and fifteen and sixteen and then we were twenty. We were schoolkids with pranks and khaki cargoes and we giggled at the secret trespass of bubblegum. We were teenagers with obsessions and insecurities and subcultures. Then we could drive, we could drink, we could make love. Now we're pretend-adults with worries and flings, all dressed up with a facade of maturity. We can travel by ourselves without causing major incidents and we learn about philosophy and ethics and business and other grown up stuff.

But we still play pranks. And hang out in the same shopping centres as we did in years past. And when we talk we spend hours and our parents still yell for the phone back. And it's like we've never been apart.

And we are twelve and thirteen and fourteen and fifteen and sixteen and seventeen and eighteen again.

I miss you too.