Three linked hearts on an ankle

I found the biro you gave me on the coach to Whitby in 1994, the one that only ever wrote in blue. It was at the bottom of my handbag on Saturday, under a bus ticket and three sweet wrappers, which tells you everything about my handbag. Thirty years on, it still lays down a line if you press hard enough.

You missed the reunion. Mr Hollis still runs the raffle with the same shoebox, and he still calls Trevor Thompson a dreadful boy, though Trevor is a grandad now with a comb-over he clearly thinks nobody notices. Everyone asked after you. I said you were in Leeds, which is true, and that you still drew our three hearts on everything, which is also true. Dinah showed me hers in the car park, a neat little row of outlines, the same shapes we used to trace from the back of Mr Hollis's geography book until the paper went grey.

She asked if I'd ever finished ours. I said no, because one of the hearts was always Sam's, and Sam left in the spring of Year Ten with a suitcase and no goodbye. We never agreed who would fill in the middle one, so we just left it open, three shapes that touched and didn't quite close. Dinah laughed and said that was the most us thing we had ever done.

I've posted the pen back to you with this letter. Don't keep it in a drawer. Draw the third heart yourself, and this time, don't rub it out.