“I know!” you said, and the sparks in your eyes were so bright worried they would blind me. Looking in them was like staring into the sun. It felt dangerous. It felt like everything I was taught not to do when I was too small to understand just how small I was, in context of the whole universe. “We should go to the coffee shop. You know the one — or, wait, you don’t, do you? It’s okay though, just follow me.” You took my hand before I could say anything, and I let you because it was warm. 

“But you don’t like coffee, and I don’t either” I said, when I finally managed to get a word in. You stopped still, and when you smiled the corners of your eyes crinkled like I had just told the best joke you’d ever heard. 

“Well, of course!” you replied. “You’ll see.” You took my hand and kept right on going, and I let you because I wanted to be in on the joke. 

You were right, which I should have expected. It didn’t look like much on the outside, just a neon sign and a couple of windows hidden in the nook between two much larger buildings. It looked like a secret that I did not want to hear. But you pulled me through the door, all reassuring ‘you’ll see’s and ‘trust me, trust me!’s. 

You were right, which I knew as soon as I stepped foot inside and I could feel the warmth in the air. It smelled more like chocolate than like coffee, rich and sweet. A mosaic of differently colored woods composed the walls and floor and furniture, all deep browns and gentle beiges and brilliant crimsons. Inviting plush cushions covered the wooden seats and booths. From above, soft gold light rested gently over the shop, low and intimate. 

You ordered a hot chocolate — large, extra marshmallows, a little bit of cinnamon. It was your regular, which I know because the person behind the counter confirmed it with you, voice bright with a cheer that did not seem forced. She asked if she had gotten it right, and you smiled at her so big and warm when you told her she did. I forget what I ordered, but it was sweet and cold and soft brown, and I stirred at the perfectly square ice cubes with my straw when I wasn’t drinking. I picked up the habit when I was small because I liked the clink of colliding ice cubes. I still do. 

You chose a booth so we could sit next to each other, and we sank into the cushioned bench and sipped our drinks for a while in silence. I don’t know how good they actually were. They tasted better in that atmosphere, like a breath of air from the forest when you’ve grown to tolerate the pollution of the city. It wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted to say anything, it was that I didn’t know how to start a conversation. I still don’t. 

“You see now, right?” you asked, and the urgency and weight you said it with pressed into my skin. 

“You were right,” I confirmed. My voice sounded dull compared to yours, like carpet that you only realize has faded once you shift all the furniture aside and uncover those little bright patches of what ought to be. “I like this,” I said, and I leaned into you as though I could compensate with action for what I could not express in words. You beamed like light

radiating out from a cloud from every angle and draped one arm over my shoulder like a cape. 

“I knew you would,” you whispered, as though you were telling me a secret, and I leaned into you in earnest, to be closer to you instead of to make up for what I could not give in other ways. I wondered how you managed to glow so brightly in the low light. I wondered why I couldn’t glow the same way, why I couldn’t give you what you deserved. 

We finished our drinks and walked outside. It was drizzling then, and you tilted your face up to the sky to take it in as though you had never experienced better weather in your whole life. I stopped and stood there, even though our clothes were getting soaked, because I hoped that maybe if I did it long enough I might feel it too. But despite my best attempts, when you turned to look at me you saw me shivering and small. When your brow furrowed I felt like I had crumpled up an important note and thrown it away. I wish I could say that I started to apologize, because that would have been something. I wish I could say I took your hand and my fingers were as warm as yours had been, and I smiled bright enough that the light could reflect off of you. But I didn’t. I just stood there and looked away a little, and you apologized over and over. You took my hand and pulled me out of the rain, and I let you because I hoped it might be enough to make you smile again. 

I’m sorry for what happened all those years later, back out in the rain. I did love you. I still do. But I loved you outside of the context of ‘us’. I couldn’t do it any other way. You were too bright to stand next to anyone, least of all me. 

Afterwards, I stood in the rain and tilted my head up into it for so long that my whole hands pruned and water puddled in my shoes, hoping that maybe this time I could understand.