Rain pelts heavily against the window, the aftermath of a coastal hurricane’s outer ridges. The sky was a pale gray for hours and now it darkens into steel-blue. I’m feeling old at eighteen, you say, clutching your bruised knees to your chest on the bed in my gray sweater. I bite my lip, leaving an indentation on its lower ridge. I have been thinking the same thing.

You push your red curls behind your ears. “Soon we’ll both be gone and where we once were there will be nothing. I want to freeze this moment in time so neither of us will grow old and cynical and move a thousand miles away.” I wonder if tears have the same effect on eyeliner as mascara.

But I say nothing. I don’t go to where you sit to hold you tightly and whisper it will be okay. Instead I rest my bloodless fingers against the windowsill and stare out at the streetlights, glowing orbs dotting the neighborhood. We both jump at the thunder and, for a moment, the lightning makes everything clear.
You jump off the bed and walk inches from where I stand. Your breath lingers by my neck and you make a sharp noise as though wanting to say something, but instead swallow your thoughts back in. From the corner of my eye I can see your clavicles protruding from between your shoulders and neck, the tense arc of your shoulders. We stand like that for minutes, unmoving, until finally, reluctantly, I stare into your cool blue eyes.


It’s easier, you say, when we think we will be young forever.