A Summer Story

It started in July. Early July.

He glimpsed at her. Momentarily. A moment that lasted a thousand more moments that travelled across the sea, around the world and back into his heart. She smiled. He looked again. Harder this time. With meaning. With the meaning of someone who had just experienced all of the world's wonders at once. She blushed. He felt all of the world's wonders present in his stomach. He'd not felt butterflies before this firefly night.

Soon they would be laughing; quietly under the night's happy stare. They smiled, and laughed, and soaked in the quiet.

They spent long, hazy days enveloped by friendly skies and gentle air. They kissed tenderly and sweetly and with more smiles than they could ever have imagined. They spent unexpected rainy days wrapped in the blanket of each other's company and long nights wandering below the stars and charming each other's parents. They hoped and they wished and they comforted one another. They never fought; they never cried.

Not until the end.

That summer he forgot, and she learnt. She taught him that memories and events can become hazy and then almost disappear. He taught her trust and happiness underneath the picture of someone else's adoration. They both fell; jumped; parachuted.

Without the parachute.

One night she told him her fears. It was a calm night. They barely noticed its company. His eyes were filled with worry, but with reassurance too. She didn't cry; she couldn't cry; she didn't want to cry. But she let him hold her and tell her words that were sprinkled with so much truth that she could cry looking back. He stroked her, and dealt with her worries with love, instantly diminishing their existence.

That was the night she opened her eyes to the love she refused to ignore any longer.

He bought her dinner and she showed his richness in the words she promised she felt. She'd never imagined feeling this way, she said. She didn't blink. He didn't dare blink. Not in that moment. If he blinked, he might forget to soak in every inch of her being. He couldn't forget that; he wouldn't.

It ended in September. Late September.

It was far from painless, but it wasn't ugly. How could a summer like the sunset ever be remembered with pain?

~

Duvets & Blankets,

The Girl in the Moonlight.