I looked up at the sky and remembered that night, so long ago, when you woke me up in the middle of the night and dragged me outside to lay on a picnic blanket and look up at the stars.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” you asked me, and I nodded my head against your chest. You used to hate it when I did that – my hair always tickled your face.

“D’you see that star right there?” you asked me, extending an arm in the direction of the sky. I nodded again. Your arm tightened around my shoulders. “That one can be ours,” you said, whispering in my ear.

The cicadas were buzzing in the trees nearby. Noise from the cars passing by on Main Street. Somewhere, distantly, a radio played softly, the sound carried on the wind. Fireflies in the bushes. But, in that moment, all that existed was you and me and the coconut-y smelly of sunscreen on your skin.

“Evie,” you said. “Every time you look at that star, I’m thinking about you.”

I sat outside on the deck, looking at our star and wishing it was still true.