I can’t get this memory, this feeling, out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about her, or that night.

It was in the middle of summer and it was hot, even after the sun went down. Together, we went to Oddfellow’s park. We walked on the trail for a bit, enjoying the warmth of the night, and the sound of each other’s voice.

Katy got caught up talking to a friend of hers, so I made it down to the side of the river and climbed in. Eventually, she joined me in the water. She came close to me, and I hugged her small, shivering frame. We didn’t say much, we just enjoyed being next to each other. That night, as I looked at her, I mapped all the freckles and moles on her face as an astronomer would map the constellations.

Finally, we got out of the river, trembling from the cold. We threw our dry clothes over our wet bodies and went to get into her car. Something stopped us (I don’t remember exactly what), and we both looked up at the sky. The stars were so beautiful that night, I can still remember—just as I can still remember the pattern of the freckles on her face. We climbed onto the hood of her old, red GMC Jimmy. It was hot and it kept us warm enough to gaze at the stars for a while.

There we were—I think she was sixteen and I was fifteen—our bodies soaked, side-by-side, absorbing the magnificence of the sky, of our moment together. It felt as though, for that night, only we could see that sky and its beautiful stars.

I’ll never forget that night, or how lovely she is.