You wore a blue shirt that hung loosely on your shoulders and faded jeans that hung on your hips, and your hair fell into your eyes. You were so familiar, this perfect image that reminded me of home and summer and reawakened memories. We sat, not close enough so that our shoulders touched, but close enough that our legs grazed one another innocently underneath the blanket of the night’s darkness.

How did it happen?

We were talking about our dating lives before each other and I marveled at how much more extensive your list was than mine. We talked about animals, like moose and elks and Sesame Street and pandas. We talked about us, when we first started dating each other, and who messaged who first.

I suspect it was the way you stretched and inhaled deeply, or maybe it was the way we’d move forward and back, like some sort of a choreographed dance. Maybe it was the way you spoke about physics and chemistry and hunting, maybe it was your smirk, but I got drunk off your voice and your thoughts and as our conversation turned to name-dropping authors and the necessity of physicists in an end-of-the-world scenario, I could feel you move closer — perhaps you were drunk on me, too.

Maybe that’s how it happened.

Suddenly, gone were the barriers that kept us apart, because you had settled on a decision. The possibility, the chance, the hypothetical was back on the table and it shocked and scared me, but hearing you say those words — how had I not known that those words were all I wanted to hear? They slipped easily off your tongue and I was struck by the seriousness of it, of how long you had been thinking about us, in that way, again. How you had clearly been affected and how the image I had of what your life was like back home was completely wrong. You told me the most rational things — but they sounded crazy to me, because were we really at that place now? Were we now at that age that we had talked about when we were young?

I felt the air dip in temperature and I knew the earth was still spinning and I knew everybody around us was going on with their lives, but I couldn't. The words that fell onto the table and wrapped around me were so real and right and tangible. You made a future with you — one that used to be hopeless and one that was growing darker with each passing month — you made it possible again. And as much as I didn’t want to get my hopes up — how could I not?

You said you wanted to come home to me.

Because you had thought of everything. Of where we’d live, where you’d work, the holidays, the conditions, and even our kids. How they would grow up, where they would grow up, you thought about your family and my family. But yet, underneath all that, despite all of it being exactly what I wanted to hear for so long, there was an overwhelming sense of doubt underneath such rational and positive thoughts. We weren't adults yet — we were only slowly getting there. We had so much left to accomplish in our lives — lives that were so different from each other, lives that were miles and miles apart.

It was as if all the rational things you had said hung unbalanced against the harsh reality that we weren't quite there yet. And maybe that was it — trying to combine our idea of the future with the situation we have now, was far too big for us to fathom. Who were we trying to become? Were we still just kids in love or were we now adults in love?

You told me you wanted me to be happy, that you wanted me to find a love that didn't complicate my life. I told you to stop being selfish with your heart, because under different circumstances — who knows, maybe even under these circumstances — I would've said yes and I would've been yours in a heartbeat. . But there was no conclusion made, no guarantee given, and no possible way to fix the way my heart swelled and broke at the same time.

Two weeks later, we were at the same spot. This time, you wore khaki shorts and a blue Henley — it was a new shirt, you pointed out. We had gotten back from a Spanish dinner, where the waiter had asked if we were dating. We had gotten back from a chocolate cake excursion, where you grabbed me on the stairs and kissed me on the mouth, lips sweet from ice cream. And fifteen minutes later, there we were — coffees in hand, stirrers played with, and the chatter of everyday life around us. It started innocently enough, talking about your life back home and mine here, talking about how difficult it all was after the fallout. And then, as it so often happens between us, it transitioned. Suddenly we were talking about what our future could be like.

Later, our fingers intertwined with one another, over the gearbox of my small car, as we weaved in and out of late-night traffic. There was a quiet between us, not one tinged with discomfort, but one that settled warmly around our shoulders. You convinced me to come inside and I said hi to your sister, as she walked upstairs. We sat out on your back porch, my legs between yours as we faced each other. You pulled me in close, your fingers making patterns across my denim-clad thighs and I rested my head in between your chin and your shoulder — I remember fitting perfectly into that curve, how I breathed you in and tried my hardest to commit you to memory. I know you tried to do the same, because you reached out to wipe away my tears, you traced the outline of my face, and you held strands of my hair between your fingers. I tried hard to keep it together and you told me to hold on for just a minute longer.

But it wasn’t just a minute we were trying to hold on to.

We were holding on to moments, missed opportunities, and thousands of unsaid words. We were holding on to glances and secrets, whispered promises and dreams. I remember it like it was yesterday — burned in my mind so brightly that it eclipsed everything else.

You had trouble letting me go and when you kissed my lips, I felt the desperation in your touch — it scared me, because nobody, no boy or girl or family member, nobody had ever been that reckless and determined to keep me before. You were clinging to every part of me, trying to memorize me before I walked away, and I was clinging back, searching for any reason to stay. And there were so many reasons, so many little parts of you that made me want to stay, but none of it was ever enough.

And there, outside your front door, where so many hellos were exchanged, you kissed me on the forehead one last time and we said goodbye.

In a perfect world, I could come with you. Or you could stay.