Some summers pass unnoticed, dissolving like grains of sand slipping through your fingers. And then, there are those that stay—those that etch themselves onto your skin, your breath, your memory. They return without warning, in the scent of grass after the rain, in the glow of a distant star, in the echo of a name that still stings when whispered.
That summer with Élise was one of those. It wasn't extraordinary by the world's standards. But for me, it was everything. A season suspended in time, luminous and fragile, like glass warmed by the sun but threatening to crack with the slightest pressure.
We were twenty-nine, still young enough to believe that love could shield us from the world, yet old enough to sense that time doesn't always keep its promises. We stayed in a small house by the lake, lent to us by a friend of Camille's. The shutters creaked in the wind, and the wooden floor groaned with age. It was imperfect. So were we.
She wore long dresses that brushed her ankles, most often barefoot. She said the earth whispered to her when her skin touched it. She laughed like she was apologizing for being happy, soft and sudden, like the flicker of a candle. That laugh still visits me sometimes, at night, uninvited.
Our days flowed gently. We woke up late and ate breakfast on the floor, on an old floral tablecloth that smelled faintly of lavender. Then we wandered. Through golden fields, forgotten forest paths, and the unexplored spaces between our hearts. We didn't need maps. We only needed each other.
One afternoon, I took a photo of her. She had just turned, her hair caught in the wind, sunlight glinting in her eyes. That photo sits tucked inside one of my notebooks. It's the only one I didn't burn after the end. The rest felt like lies I couldn't live with. But that one—no, that one was real.
At night, we waited for stars. She counted them as if they were prayers, and I counted the beats of my heart. One evening, lying beneath the vast indigo sky, she whispered:
— "Do you think we could be happy like this… forever?"
— "I think we already are," I replied.
She turned to face me. Her eyes caught the starlight.
— "Then promise me we won't lose each other."
I took her hand.
— "I promise I'll look for you. Even in the silence. Even if time pulls us apart. I'll always look for you."
Maybe that was too heavy a promise for two hearts still learning how to stay.
**
That summer, I saw her—truly saw her. Not just the version she showed the world, but the hidden folds beneath her laughter. One evening, thunder rumbling in the distance, she said:
— "I'm afraid I don't know how to love all the way."
I looked at her, puzzled.
— "You love me already."
— "No… I mean the staying kind of love. The kind that remains even when things get ugly. When the music stops. When the words run dry."
She looked away then, her fingers tugging at a loose thread on the blanket.
— "I've always been good at beginnings," she added, "but I don't know how to not run when the walls start closing in."
I didn't answer. I didn't know how. I just held her hand tighter, thinking it would be enough. It wasn't.
Sometimes, at night, she rested her head on my shoulder in silence. I would talk about childhood memories, strange dreams, stories I wanted to write but never would. She listened like every syllable was a gift. She rarely interrupted. But once, just once, she whispered:
— "Do you know why I listen so much?"
— "Why?"
— "Because when you speak, the world feels softer."
**
Camille visited on weekends. She teased us for being inseparable, brought wine and card games, and laughed about her failed relationships with theatrical sarcasm.
One night, under a sky heavy with stars, she asked bluntly:
— "Do you two really think this will last?"
Élise met her gaze.
— "Why wouldn't it?"
Camille shrugged.
— "Even the best promises break."
Élise didn't reply. But that night, she stayed up late, her fingers curled around mine, her eyes open and distant. I think something cracked in her silence that I didn't know how to mend.
**
There was one day—one perfect, devastating day—that still flickers vividly in my mind. We had rented a canoe, the old wooden kind with chipped paint and a soft creak. The lake was a mirror. The sky a painting.
In the middle, she stood and dove in without warning. Her laughter echoed over the water as she swam. I stayed seated, watching.
— "Come in!" she shouted.
— "I can't swim," I lied.
She paddled closer, splashing playfully, but when her eyes met mine, they were quieter than her voice.
— "Then I'll swim for both of us."
That moment broke something in me. I saw it then—what I hadn't wanted to see. She was already drifting, even if her body stayed close. The way she looked at me that day… it was like watching someone memorize your face before they forget you.
**
The last evening of summer, we buried paper wishes beneath the old oak tree near the house. Her idea. She called it a sacred ritual.
— "We won't read them," she said, "not now. We'll bury them. If love lasts, they stay buried. If not… maybe someone else will find them someday and know we were here."
We wrote in silence. My hands trembled as I folded the paper. We dug a shallow hole, covered it with damp earth, and stared at the spot for a while, as if it might speak.
— "Do you think someone will read them?" I asked.
— "Maybe," she smiled. "But it won't matter. What matters is that we dared to write them."
That night, she curled up beside me, tracing circles on my chest. She didn't say much, but her breathing gave her away. It wasn't peace. It was goodbye wrapped in silence.
At some point, just before I drifted off, she whispered:
— "Remember me. Even if I forget."
**
She was still there the next morning. Her hair tangled, her eyes quiet, her presence intact. But her soul… something had shifted. A softness that had once held us now felt cautious, guarded.
We left a few days later. Packed bags. Returned keys. Drove in silence. The radio played a song she once loved. She didn't hum along.
I asked her what she'd written in her note. She shook her head, smiling faintly.
— "It was for the stars. Not for you."
I never asked again.
**
That summer became a photograph in my mind. Untouched, golden, grainy. But like all photographs, it could not capture the sound, the scent, the slipping. Just the image. Just the moment.
Some promises made under summer stars are not meant for winter.
Some are fireflies—glowing, trembling, destined to vanish before dawn.
I know this now.
But then… then I believed in light.
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