“Sure.” I’m not sure if I meant it. I’m still not sure what I’m doing here, walking side by side with Flávia in overwhelming silence. The only sound is the rush of wind, getting louder and stronger until, ten minutes into the walk, the gusts give way to a downpour.

“Shit.” Flávia pulls an umbrella out of her backpack, spreading it open in front of us. It’s astonishing that she thinks an umbrella will hold up against all this wind and rain, like she hasn’t been living in Ireland her whole life. But instead of saying anything, I huddle in close to her under the small umbrella. I breathe in her scent—vanilla and cinnamon—mixed with the smell of freshly fallen rain.

Our shoulders press against each other, and even though it’s impossible to be touching, really, underneath the layers of our school uniform, it feels oddly intimate. I can feel every movement of her body, vibrating against me. I’m sure she can feel mine too.

Her hands on the umbrella handle tremble. She’s nervous. The realization sends a jolt of electricity through me.

Walking side by side on this deserted road, with the wind whispering all around us and the rain obscuring our vision, feels like we’ve stepped into our own private universe. Like the students and teachers we left behind at school don’t exist anymore. Like our destination is just an idea, not an obligation or something that holds any weight. Like everything in the world has fallen away to make space for this moment, for the rhythmic breathing of the two of us, side by side. Despite the cold, the rain, and the damp, the warmth of Flávia’s body is a palpitating thing next to me. The heat of her is stronger than any Irish sun.

Emboldened by the moment, my body moves of its own accord. My hand reaches out to find hers. Our fingers link together, under the cover of rain and wind.

Flávia stops in her tracks. She’s been staring ahead this whole walk, but now she turns to me. Her honey-brown eyes bore into mine.

This is it. This is the moment. Possibilities surround us, thrumming in the wind, whispering in the rain.

But before either of us can make a move, the wind gives a loud howl and turns our umbrella inside out.

The rain that felt like part of the outside world, cocooning Flávia and I inside, is suddenly too present. It’s seeping into our clothes, weighing down our sweaters and soaking our white cotton shirts on the inside.

Flávia struggles against the wind, trying to bend her umbrella into the correct position again, but it’s futile.

“It’s not going to work.” My voice barely carries through the wind and rain.

Flávia shakes her head, like she doesn’t quite want to believe me.