He was 16, two years my senior, when we met each other. We called each other “bez” – short for best friend – simply because we were. He was the chic-magnet who could stir up a hurricane (maangas, in short), and I was the guy-repelling fat girl who was an annoying smartass. The differences didn’t end there, but then, they didn’t matter much to us. We complemented each other’s personality. Ours was a relationship void of any romantic sparks — though the others thought otherwise.
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