“A tree house.”

“Or like, a swim-in fish tank… oh, wow,” said Ros. “Look.”

Just beyond the falls, the river opened up into a deep pool, the kind that practically begged you to jump in. It was the same color as the Lovesick Falls spring—the sort of sparkling cerulean that I didn’t see with my eyes so much as felt with my body.

“I had no idea this was here,” I said.

Ros was taking their shoes off again.

“Wait,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Have you even been in yet? Besides that first night,” Ros said.

“I’m worried about currents, and eels, and I read about this bacteria—”

“Celia,” Ros said. “You have to get in.”

They jumped in first.

I went in after.

It felt amazing.

The water washed over us, and Ros splashed me and I splashed them back, and for a moment, we felt like us again. There wasn’t anything magic about where we’d jumped in. These waters didn’t form a gorgeous lagoon, and they most certainly weren’t a spring that would help us fall out of love. It was just water, a place to dunk one’s head and body, and we were swimming in it together, like any two friends on any hot summer day.

It’d be a steep, wet climb back up in sopping clothes. We’d risk twisted ankles. Bug bites. And the worst of it was that at the top of the hill, they’d say goodbye, and we’d see each other at home at and at school, and we’d be friends, but it wouldn’t be the same, and I was going to miss them. I was going to miss this version of us.

But for now—now we were swimming in the same water, normal, regular water, and that water felt good. Felt best, even. It felt like what we needed.

I would remember this.

Footnote