I chat with a few of them, nod to others, then continue sitting. And waiting.

It’s risky what I’m doing, and I know it. But I’m still here. I don’t know if I should continue this; it’s gone so well so far. She’s had a blast, a wonderful birthday she will surely remember. But she’s still leaving in a few hours. I’m not sure why I’m here. Just couldn’t stay away, I guess. Wanted to see her up close. I’ve been watching her all day, but from a distance. It would be nice to sit together—not together but almost—by this fire, to see her smile, maybe even laugh. I’m curious what her voice sounds like. I only heard it for a few seconds when we were doing the bike tour, but I was in such a state of panic that she’d discover me, I didn’t truly pay attention. I’m curious what color her eyes are. I really don’t know what I’m doing here. Will I tell her who I am? Will I just go over there and introduce myself?

She sits across from me, on the other side of the fire and right next to Remy.

As he’s singing, she lifts her eyes and looks at the fire.

I try to look away, look somewhere else, act busy or distracted, but I don’t. I can’t.

So I look too. And our eyes meet.

At first, I think she might be looking at the fire or right through me, but judging by that feeling in my stomach, she’s looking straight at me.

I hold her gaze. My God, she’s beautiful.

The woman with the thermos offers a cup of cocoa and Maya gladly takes it.

The staring contest is over. The moment is gone.

I’m almost on the street, when I see something in the sand, not far from where I am, in the spot where Maya and I sat earlier today, ate our snacks and drank our juices. Together but separate. It makes me sad thinking I missed the opportunity to get to know her better, to spend this day with her, not just watching her and watching out for her, but looking into her eyes and hearing her voice. I wish I had been braver, bolder. But it’s too late now for regrets.

At first, I think I’m imagining it. I walk closer, and yes, it is her. She fell asleep on the beach, her backpack next to her.

I approach as slowly as I can, afraid I might wake her up and then stand there looking at her, wondering what could’ve been had we met under different circumstances.

I take my hoodie off and cover her with it, then grab my pen—always with me—and the travel notebook from my pocket and write down quickly my hopeful thoughts for the beginning of our life together… before I bend down to put them in the hoodie’s pocket and kiss her hair. She smells so nice, like cherry blossoms in the spring. “I will see you soon. I hope…”