Deja always brings her food—

and sometimes as I’m leaving the cafeteria

her lunch block comes in, and I overhear

her friends teasing her for the woven bag

she carries, the Post-it note that her mother

writes with a heart fluttering to the tabletop.

Sometimes she sees me watching

and beckons me over, but

I always say no, point to the door

like I have somewhere urgent to be.

She always smiles like she understands

even if she doesn’t, and her friends

raise eyebrows,

but she never stops asking.