Love is the last summer

Summer arrives like it is trying to distract you.

The light lingers too long. The sunsets look painted on. The air smells like grass and sunscreen and something sweet you cannot name.

It is beautiful.

It is unbearable.

You start counting weeks in your head.

You do not tell her.

You just know.

Three and a half.

Three.

Two and a half.

The numbers sit quietly behind every laugh.

You spend almost every day together now, not because you planned it, but because being apart feels like a waste.

You meet in the mornings just to walk nowhere in particular. You sit on the curb outside her house and share iced coffee that melts faster than you can drink it.

She always steals the first sip.

“That’s mine,” you protest weakly.

“You hesitated,” she says. “Hesitation forfeits rights.”

“That is not a rule.”

“It is now.”

You try to grab the cup back and she pulls it away, grinning, then relents and holds it up to your mouth like she is being generous.

You drink anyway.

You memorize everything.

The exact pitch of her laugh when it surprises her, the way it breaks into something unguarded and bright.

The way she fits perfectly under your arm when you pull her close, her head settling against your shoulder like it has always belonged there.

The way she traces invisible shapes on your wrist when she is thinking. Circles. Lines. Something that feels almost like letters.

“What are you writing?” you ask one afternoon.

She shrugs without looking up. “Secret.”

“Is it my name?”

“Maybe.”

“Is it something embarrassing?”

“Definitely.”

You narrow your eyes at her. She leans up and presses a quick kiss to your jaw, distracting you on purpose.

You let her.

You take too many pictures.

She notices.

“Why are you photographing me like I’m about to disappear?” she asks one evening, squinting at you as you hold your phone up again.

You freeze.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You lower the phone slowly. “You just look nice.”

She studies your face for a second, something soft flickering there.

Then she leans forward and kisses you properly, slow and warm, her hands cupping your cheeks.

“Then take it,” she murmurs against your mouth. “If you like it.”

You do.

You save it to a folder you pretend is not special.

Afternoons are for playing.

You go to the park and lie on the grass until your shirts are stained green. You count clouds and argue about what they look like.

“That one’s a dragon,” she says confidently.

“That is clearly a lopsided duck.”

“It has wings.”

“So do ducks.”