I lean back on my elbows, looking at her in the moonlight as the stars begin to show themselves. Sometimes I feel as if everything has been waiting for her. It’s why I needed to pretend I didn’t care.

Why everything in my life has been about moving forward and not looking back.

She’s my past, but I always thought she’d be my future.

I’ll never understand how two kids managed to fall so hard for each other that, after all this time, it still feels as strong. It all came back the day she did.

“Yeah, it’s a few years old.”

“Hopefully, the owners have never found this spot.”

I grin. “From the overgrowth, I’d guess not.”

No, it doesn’t look like anyone at all has been here.

“I hope they don’t mind us being here.”

I shrug. “I’m not worried.”

Jess shifts her weight, bumping into me. “You were always able to get out of trouble.”

“I’m a likable guy.”

“You’re something, all right.” Jess’s smile is warm, and I want to kiss her so much it hurts.

“What else do you have in there?” I ask, looking at the bag.

She opens it up, pulling out a water bottle, a pillow, a bag of snacks, and her phone, which is comical because there’s no reception over here.

“Were you planning on sleeping here?”

“No,” she says slowly. “I just wasn’t sure I’d find it, and I swear it was you who told me to always be prepared in case I got lost or hurt.”

“That I did.”

She leans back on her elbows, mimicking my pose, and I grab at the snack bag.

“Hey! Bring your own snacks,” she says with a laugh.

“I like yours better.”

I open the bag of crackers and pop one into my mouth. She rolls her eyes and rests her head on the pillow. I hate that I still find her irresistible.

I look out at the view, focusing on the stars instead of how beautiful she is. Her long brown hair is pulled up in one of those buns that make zero sense, and she’s wearing leggings and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt that shows off her tattoo. “What does that say?” I ask, avoiding the complexity of my thoughts around her.

Her head turns to me, eyes filled with confusion. “What?”

“Your tattoo.”

“Oh,” she says with a grin, “It’s Latin for: strength isn’t measurable.”

“That’s very true.”

“I sometimes have to remind myself that we aren’t born with a finite amount of strength because there’s always more when we need it. We have to harness it, use it, refill it once it’s depleted.”

“Look at you,” I say, nudging her softly. “A philosopher.”

She shakes her head. “Far from it. I just have thoughts about certain things in life.”