If I had a time machine, I would save you first
—though you probably don't want saving, and it's presumptuous of me to use the word save at all, like I wasn't right there in the water, in the dark, with you. You were always the one saving me, anyway. Not that we keep score.
If I had a time machine, I'd place my hands firm on your shoulders: you aren't a bad person, you're just 19. Young and dumb, spending too much time awake. I hope you sleep better at 21. (I know you don't.) I hope you know I smile when your name pops up in my messages. I hope you know I'm sorry.
If I had a time machine, I would text first: let's have breakfast for lunch again. But I don't have one, and I don't need one, because we're going today, anyway. And if it weren't today, it would be someday, all of the somedays, because who are we if not the same people, growing up together, as we were seven years ago, as we are today?