I met you at recess on the first day of grade two, when Glen was showing me around the playground. You were on the swings, tucking your body in the backswing and whipping your legs out to propel yourself up.
"This is Robert," Glen said, "he's pretty weird". "My name's not Robert anymore!" You shouted. "It's Bobert!" Your body straightened as you hit the upswing, looking to inch past that moment when the chains slackened and your body lifted up out of the seat, your own energy carrying you beyond the completion of the arc.
"See, I told you he was weird," Glen said. Ten years later you walked home from a party and killed yourself with a shotgun. You left no note.