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Apo remembers, like a faded photograph, her favorite memory of Cherri. It isn't anything special—it isn't that time they took a day trip to the beach and Cherri took her shoes off, sand slipping between her toes, illuminated by the sun like a vision from on high. Her nose scrunched up with a laugh, her hair loose around her shoulder, her head tipped back, cheeks warmed by the daylight. It isn't, either, the dreamy silver-lit image of Cherri in her bedroom at midnight the first time they kissed, a blanket wrapped around the two of them with the excuse of shared body heat, anything to be closer. Cherri had tasted sweet and bitter at the same time, like cake and coffee, and her lips on Apo's felt like a heart attack, a punch to the gut, the bravest and best thing Apo had ever done. When they'd parted, Cherri's eyes were wide and her cheeks were flushed.
"I didn't—" she'd started to say before cutting herself off. She swallowed, and Apo tracked it down the column of her throat. "I've been wanting to do that for a while," she finally whispered, as if saying it louder would break a spell.
Apo had smiled faintly. "Beat you to it."
Cherri giggled. "Mm, I don't mind it," she hummed, leaning back in to kiss Apo again.
Precious though those memories are, despite the fact that they keep them held close to their heart, folded carefully into their mind and preserved like treasures, they aren't Apo's favorite memory of Cherri. That takes place in the kitchen of their old flat, the tiny window above the sink that showed the street below and a bit of sky if one shifted the right way. It was a narrow room, the cabinets and counters boxing a person in, but Cherri's prescence managed to make any room bigger.
In Apo's favorite memory of Cherri, a record is playing faintly from the next room, and Cherri is laughing at something Apo just said, standing at the stove with her head tipped forward and her nose scrunched. She straightens, running a hand through her hair and quickly pulling it back into a ponytail, bangs escaping to fall over her eye. Little wisps float behind her ears, and Apo badly wants to kiss the skin there, run their fingers over the vein tucked into that hidden corner. Pasta boils on the burner, slowly turning to glue and Cherri forgets about it, engaged with Apo and whatever conversation they're having.
It's not special or significant—it isn't their first date, getting milkshakes from a drive-thru and going to a park to walk and chat and do whatever came to their minds. It isn't the first time Apo realized she was in love with Cherri, the morning after a sleepover when she was ten years old and woke up curled around her best friend and felt a funny swooping feeling in her chest seeing Cherri's face, still soft in sleep, the way they hunched in on themself as if trying to disappear. The warmth of waking up cuddled so close stayed with Apo the rest of the day.
It's a nothing memory, a throwaway moment of millions, but Apo loves it because Cherri looks so happy in it—carefree and unguarded for a moment, not worried about the pasta timer or their job or money or their parents. Just laughing at a joke Apo made and being somewhat messy, somewhat of a whirlwind the same way they always are.
Apo remembers when they were fifteen, exploring the woods behind Apo's house, wading in the creek that ran there and playing hide and seek amongst the trees. At one point, Cherri had held up her hand to shush Apo and they had obliged quickly, snapping their mouth shut as the two of them moved closer to what had captured Cherri's attention. It was a collection of mushrooms, vibrant red speckled with white, growing out of the forest floor.
"I've never seen them like that before," Apo had murmured, leaning down to get a better look. "They look like something in a fairytale, don't they?"
"They're called toadstools," Cherri had answered, joining her in crouching on the ground. "They sorta look like potion ingredients."
"Or, like, fairy homes," Apo giggled.
"A stool for a toad," Cherri joked with a smile, and she'd reached out and picked one. It came easily out of the dark earth, little bits of dirt clinging to the roots underneath. She held it out to Apo. "For you."
Apo had flushed pink and taken it gently. "What a generous gift." The stem was soft under her fingertips, and closer she could see that the white spots were raised on the surface of the mushroom, forming a bumpy texture. She picked another one and gave it to Cherri. "And one for you."
"How kind," Cherri had said. She ran a finger lightly over the top and then said, "Be careful not to touch your mouth or your face until we can wash our hands. I can't remember if these are poisonous or not."
Apo raised an eyebrow. "You gave me a poisonous mushroom as a gift?"
"Maybe poisonous," Cherri corrected. "What's life without a little danger, anyway?"
"Nothing's wrong with danger, I just think it goes against the rules of courtesy."
"We're in the middle of the woods! What courtesy applies here?"
"The courtesy of gift giving. Giving me a poisonous present? How dare you. I could've died."
"It's maybe poisonous, Apo—hey, wait!" Cherri points at her and Apo can't help but start laughing. "You gave me one as well! You're also rude!"
"But I didn't know that they were poisonous!"
"Oh, and that exempts you?"
"It's innocent until proven guilty—"
"Literally shut up. You are the worst."
The memory is washed in mossy greens and the cool damp of a forest after it rains, and then it leaves and Apo is pulled to restless nights when she was eighteen, nineteen, twenty; the world so big and them thrust into it for the first time, struggling to find their footing. The nights she and Cherri would curl up together on the couch with a blanket, rewatching old reruns of sitcoms late into the night to push away the crushing weight of everything they were ignoring. The afternoon Cherri came to her sobbing and told Apo they were so, so sorry but it was too much to have a girlfriend and keep on top of their classes and work two jobs and be a teaching assistant, that they loved Apo but they felt like they were drowning and they didn't know what to do.
At the end of it, Cherri had quietly asked, "Are—can we still be friends? I—I don't think I can take not being friends with you."
Apo had looked down at the girl she loved more than anything else in the world and felt a hundred needles pierce her heart at the thought of them not being hers anymore. She'd kissed the crown of their head and said, "Of course we're still friends."
Cherri had hesitated at the doorway, chewing on her bottom lip as she glanced back around Apo's dorm before walking down the hallway, leaving the lingering scent of her cinnamon perfume. Apo had breathed it in like it could be hers to keep in her chest, and felt the tears building in her throat. She'd swallowed them down.
Then there were the nights further down the line, at parties where the music thrummed into one's bones and the alcohol was cheap but there, when it was easy to make mistakes and forget the consequences. The nights they and Cherri would find each other, like magnets pulled together, the clash of Cherri's teeth against their own and her tongue in Apo's mouth, the slide of her lips on their skin, the way the curve of her waist seemed made for Apo's hand and how badly they wanted to hold her there.
Waking up in the morning with their neck covered in markings and bruises was somehow easy. Apo had always woken before Cherri, had always been the early riser out of the two of them, and it was simple to ignore the pain and ache of longing in their heart, to quietly slip away and leave Cherri with her scattered memories of the night before.
It was harder, of course, when Cherri came to her dorm after the sun had set, deep shadows under her eyes and a clear tension in her. Apo had never considered herself a self-destructive person, but those nights were always the worst—the want simmering just beneath her skin that made her invite Cherri in, that agreed to whatever she said without hesitation, that made it just as hard to open her eyes the next day and know she couldn't have her like that anymore, that it wouldn't end with Cherri wandering into the kitchenette for breakfast and slipping her arms around Apo and kissing her good morning before going to make coffee.
Apo wasn't self-destructive, but those nights made something in her heart scream. She didn't know whether it was out of anger or sadness. Either way, she kept quiet about it so she could keep Cherri.
Apo remembers, clear as day, like a flipbook animation: Cherri calling her about a pretty girl in their art class; Cherri texting her about the nice barista who winked at them every morning; Cherri blushing red as they stumbled their way through giving directions to a dark-skinned girl who'd stopped them on the way to class, Apo by their side as always.
The crushes never lasted long, a glance and a smile, the flutter of butterflies before fading back into nothing. Apo remembers the dates, as well, occasionally, Cherri sending her selfies that made her pulse increase or, more often, coming over and debating which outfit to wear with what make-up while Apo offered suggestions and tried to pretend she wasn't in love with her best friend.
Apo remembers Cherri in a thrift shop, flushing from embarrassment as Apo holds up an aviator's jacket for her, giggling quietly and shushing each other, Cherri refusing to put it on. They remember Cherri skipping rocks at the beach, looking out toward the sea, wind ruffling her hair. Cherri at a carnival, teasing Apo for losing the game of ring toss when she beat it and then grabbing their hand on the big drop ride, a smile tugging up the corner of her mouth. Cherri across from them in a resturaunt, a plate of tempura ice cream slowly melting between them as she explains her latest portfolio piece.
Their memory is a tapestry of Cherri, Cherri, Cherri, elementary to middle to high school to college to beyond, a round-cheeked girl growing up into a sharp-eyed woman who continues to take Apo's breath away. Still, always, their best friend.
Apo remembers, shrouded in darkness, coming home to the flat she shared with Cherri to find the lights off and the sharp scent of iron in the air, the sick plunging dread she felt in her stomach, the instant relief when she found Cherri in the living room, scars slicing down her arms, a kitchen knife in her hand. She stared at it, not looking up even as Apo's footsteps sounded, even as she came into the room and flicked on a lamp, casting a warm golden glow that felt at odds with the scene.
"What are you doing, love?" Apo had asked softly, carefully.
Cherri had sniffled and closed her eyes. "It's stupid," she said, voice thick, "but—I—"
"It's not stupid at all," Apo had said, and then she'd pulled Cherri into a hug and Cherri was falling apart in her arms, sobbing into her chest.
"It's a really stupid time to find out I'm scared of death," she managed between tears, and Apo had started rubbing circles into her back.
"Nothing you do is stupid. I think being afraid of death makes perfect sense," Apo said. Cherri sniffed again, looking up at Apo with big wet eyes, and Apo had felt her heart contract in her chest. She was so fucking in love with this girl.
"Does it, or are you just saying that?"
"Of course it does. You don't know what happens next, and it's what you'll be trapped in for forever. That sounds terrifying to me." Apo had cupped Cherri's cheeks, swiping her thumbs beneath those beautiful dark eyes, and said, "And for the record, I'm so fucking happy you're afraid of death, because it means I won't lose you yet. Please don't go before you have to."
The corners of Cherri's mouth had wobbled up in a weak little smile, and she'd said, "I won't leave you, Apo Kuna."
Apo had hugged her again, chin resting on her shoulder as she blinked back sudden tears. The adrenaline and fear of finding Cherri like that was starting to wear off, and she felt tired and concerned and a million other things. "Good. I won't leave you, Cherri Fire." She'd hesitated before whispering, "I love you."
"I love you too," Cherri whispered back.
The next morning, Apo had taken her to the coffee shop on the corner that sold espresso strong enough it made one's blood start to buzz and pastries glazed thick and shiny with sugar. It was her first step of convincing Cherri to live, not because she was afraid of the alternative or because she felt like she needed to for Apo, but because she wanted to. It was Apo's first step to trying to help her best friend as best as she could.
They'd stared at the case, deciding, for a while. The cherries glistened like fresh blood, and Apo had turned away, but Cherri had continued to stare at them, almost enraptured. In the end, Apo got a cheese danish and Cherri got an apple turnover, and they took their breakfast outside to eat. The air was damp with early morning rain and fresh with the promise of summer, the heat not yet bad enough it was sticky. There was a little girl on the sidewalk next door to the coffee shop, selling imaginary tea and mud pies and sweating glasses of lemonade that Apo suspected was just tap water.
She and Cherri stopped to talk to her, and the little girl smiled brightly with one front tooth missing, offering Cherri the first pick of aluminum tins filled with dark sludge. Cherri chose one and thanked her, pretending to eat it, bringing it almost to her lips. She set it back down and claimed it was delicious, and Apo and the little girl had both beamed.
In that moment, Apo didn't think she'd ever been more in love with her. She remembers thinking Cherri was the most beautiful thing in the universe, slightly messy and struggling to feel happy and making conversation with a five year old about her mud pies.
She remembers wishing Cherri could see her the way Apo saw her. Cherri had looked over at her with a soft expression, and Apo had shaken her head slightly, amused at something she didn't know yet. Cherri had turned her attention back to the little girl, but not before giving Apo a brief smile.
Apo remembers thinking that everything would be alright.