"Confessions, Calloused Hands" by Kinjal Johri

Over a shared bottle of Yellow Tail shiraz we reminisce about our youth, when we knew each other, recall all the things we’ve done in our ten years apart, brag of how happy we are now. I wonder if he sees me for the girl I was those years ago. I know I see him as the same boy, leaning on the wall outside the Science Lab, the sun hitting his honey-coloured hair, lines carved on his upper arm from all the Judo. He tells me he fights still. Of course, he says in that same blasé way I recognise from sunny school hall afternoons, I know how to thump a body to the ground. Of course I’ve bled. Of course I enjoy it — and he shows me his open palm, each rough ridge and hardened patch — can’t you tell?

When I let myself touch them I am a decade younger, sitting cross-legged with my elbows scraped raw from the parade square floor and swallowing a secret want bigger than my growing body. In that moment we are wrestling — he wants to show his strength and I want to be seen, and I love him in a way I will never have words for. Let’s give it another try, I challenge, wine-breath whisper in his pierced ear. I’m stronger now. He intertwines his fingers in mine and pushes my arm down with a force that knocks the wind out of my body still.

Kinjal lives in Singapore. Read more at kinjaljohri.carrd.co.