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Hill Street

We spent our free time driving up and down streets searching for signs that our first loves and last heartbreaks weren’t just figments of our imaginations. We looked for lights on in houses and which vehicles were parked outside, indicating who was home and what they were doing.
Our hearts raced whenever we saw a person, however it seldom was who we were looking for. And the few moments that we did catch a glimpse of him, whichever him we were searching for, we would scream like children and speed off to overanalyse.
“Did he see me?”
“He totally knows we drove by a hundred times.”
“He thinks I’m insane, oh my god.”
“I can never show my face again, he knows how creepy I am and he’s telling everyone as we speak.”
“Let’s go by one more time.”
It was how we killed time, talking about boys we hadn’t seen in years and hoping to catch a glimpse of them so we could be reassured that they did exist and we weren’t imagining them.

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