The sun is bright and a chill flows over the water. The last time we walked through those woods together we were among a group of our sixth grade classmates on a Biology field trip. I had not talked to you much before, only joked around and kicked at your shins under the desk. I remember running down a large dune, catching my breath and walking next to you, listening to something about a dog; your words composing the idea of who I thought you were in my mind.

Thirteen years later we walk through the same trees to the beach. I am ahead of you and won’t hold your hand because you are taller and it throws off my balance, I say. The light on the water reflects in my eyes and I try to soak up the heat. Like a sapling growing under a giant oak I am choked away from the light. I stand by the water’s edge and you come up next to me, kneeling down to put your hands in the water with childlike wonderment. You stand, walk up behind me and wrap your arms around the back of my waist, resting your chin on my shoulder. We take a picture and the light is caught in our smiles, reflecting on the water.

The frigid wind warns of a dying summer. I notice the leaves beginning to cover the ground, dropping from the trees and crumpling underfoot in the woods as we walk away.

Our faces stay frozen in the picture. Never moving forward. Never coming back.

Luciana, 26