But no matter what I did, I couldn’t get it out of my head.

Three days later, on my drive home Thursday night, it happened. Finally, another song barged into my consciousness. Finally, another song forced me to wake up.

“This Charming Man” was on my radio.

While I had vaguely recognized it at Moonie’s on Saturday night, I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually heard it for real. It piped loudly into the quiet confines of my car, just me and the dark night and Morrissey. And while I wasn’t a superstitious person, I couldn’t help but feel it was a sign.

I turned the volume up even louder and allowed myself to think about teenaged Sam listening in their bedroom. It was melancholy and beautiful. A lump formed in my throat.

I realized it all at once, listening to that song. I had been correct, essentially, in my assessment of Saturday night. Sam and I barely knew each other, and then we slept together. It was a hookup.

But even though there was so much I didn’t know about them—what was their family like? Had they grown up here? What was their favorite movie, favorite childhood memory?—maybe, somehow, in those few hours at Moonie’s, we had been able to see the essence of each other. Through the music we loved, the way our bodies moved and touched, how easy it was to talk about the things that mattered. Like through a few pop songs we were able to understand who we had been, who we dreamed of being, and the possibility of who we could be now—at least who we could be in those rare, important moments when we let ourselves go.

And maybe holding that night tight to my chest forever, because I was scared of what would happen if we tried to pursue anything further, could be beautiful in its own bittersweet way. Romantic, even. One perfect night preserved in memory, untamed and untainted.

But maybe I deserved more. Maybe Sam—both the person who had listened to The Smiths too much, and the person who collected maps and made me come so hard I almost blacked out—deserved more, too. Maybe we could fill in the details later. Maybe when someone saw the essence of you, it would be wrong to let that go.

When I got home, I almost frantically Googled, my heart pounding. It was so easy to find them. They popped right up on the university’s website. Sam Bell: Current Class Schedule. Office Hours. University email and phone number.

And a picture. Those eyes. My stomach flipped.

Office Hours.

That could work.

Without even taking off my scrubs, I turned on the desk lamp over my sewing machine. I got out my sketchbook. And I began to plan.