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.”

“It’s breathing fire.”

“That is just wind.”

She rolls onto her side and pokes your ribs. “You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

She pauses just long enough to make you glance at her.

Then she smiles. “Yeah. I do.”

It still makes your heart race every time she says it so easily.

Sometimes you end up in her room with the fan spinning lazily above you, the air thick and warm. You lie on her bed facing each other, knees tangled, talking about nothing.

She traces the line of your eyebrow with one finger.

“You look serious when you’re thinking,” she says.

“I am serious.”

“No, you’re not. You’re dramatic.”

You gasp softly. “I am not dramatic.”

“You absolutely are.”

She leans in and kisses you before you can argue further. It is quick and playful at first, then slower when you pull her closer.

She smiles into the kiss.

You feel it.

You pull back just enough to look at her.

“What?” she asks, slightly breathless.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring again.”

“Maybe I just like looking at you.”

She freezes for half a second.

Then her expression melts.

“Oh,” she says softly.

You both pretend that moment did not feel heavier than it should have.

At night, you still call, even if you saw each other hours earlier.

“Miss me?” she asks.

“Obviously.”

“You’re so clingy.”

“You called me.”

“Because you’re clingy.”

You can hear her smiling.

Sometimes you fall asleep on the phone together.

You wake up at three in the morning to the sound of her breathing softly through the speaker. For a second you panic, thinking you missed something.

Then you realize she is just there.

Still there.

You whisper her name.

She hums sleepily in response.

You do not hang up.

One evening, you drive out to the edge of town again. The sky is wide and endless, the horizon glowing faintly even after the sun disappears.

You climb onto the hood of her car like you have done before, shoulders touching, fingers intertwined automatically.

The metal is warm beneath you.

She nudges your side with her knee.

“Race you to see the first shooting star,” she says.

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is tonight.”

You squint at the sky dramatically. “I already saw one.”

“You’re lying.”

“Prove it.”

She gasps and sits up slightly. “You cannot cheat at stars.”

“I absolutely can.”

She shoves you lightly. You grab her wrist and pull her back down, and she lands half on top of you, laughing.

You wrap your arms around her without thinking.

She stays there.

Her head settles over your heart.

You both go quiet.

After a minute, she speaks, her voice softer.

“How many weeks?”

You know what she means.

“Two,” you say.

She nods against your chest.

“Two,” she repeats, like she is testing how it sounds.

The sky feels too big suddenly.

She lifts her head and looks at you in the dim light.

“Do you think love is enough?” she asks.

You answer immediately.

“Yes.”

Because the alternative feels unbearable.

She studies your face carefully, like she is trying to see if you believe it.

Then she smiles gently and lies back down, resting her cheek against you again.

“I hope so,” she whispers.

You tighten your arms around her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say.

She laughs quietly. “You literally are. I’m the one leaving.”

“You know what I mean.”

She reaches up and presses her palm to your cheek.

“I know.”

You lie there until the stars blur together.

She starts naming constellations incorrectly on purpose just to hear you correct her.

“That’s Orion,” you say.

“That’s a ladle.”

“It is not.”

“It could be.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

You do not hesitate this time.

“Yeah,” you say. “I really do.”

She smiles at the sky.

Summer stretches around you, golden and glowing.

You are comfortable in a way that feels almost dangerous.

You know the exact pressure of her hand in yours. The exact weight of her head on your shoulder. The exact sound she makes when she is about to laugh.

You are in love with her.

Completely.

And beneath all the playfulness, all the stolen kisses and shared drinks and lazy afternoons, there is something else.

A quiet ticking.

A calendar you both pretend not to see.

You hold her a little tighter when you think she will not notice.

She kisses you a little longer before she pulls away.

Neither of you says it out loud.

But both of you know.

Summer is golden.

Summer is beautiful.

Summer is ending.