It is cold.

This is the only thought in my mind as I breathe heavily, the icy January air cutting at my lungs and throat as I run and run and run.

Where am I running?

I’m not entirely sure. I was sitting at home at dusk not twenty minutes ago, doing my homework, listening to the radio, and then the music ambushed me—attacked me, even, with that old song we used to listen to in your truck in the middle of that abandoned wheat field back in the summer. That was when we were still new to each other, and I can still remember relishing the feel of your muscled, tanned arms holding me close as we sang that song—sometimes quietly, to ourselves; other times loudly, with the volume turned all the way up and the doors thrown open, as if we wanted the entire world to hear “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay,” even though there was no open water for miles and miles.

The tremulous opening chords of the song floated into my ears, almost ethereal, and I immediately dropped my pencil onto my trig homework, my eyes wide. I sat and listened to thirty seconds of the song, my mind playing frenzied flashbacks of our past—

(o your white cotton t-shirt, so soft, so soft and strong with you underneath it)

—our recent past—

(o your smell of musk and everything boyish, so delicious and wonderful)

and then I bolted out the door, paying no heed to the fact that it was about twenty-five degrees outside and I was not wearing anything even remotely considered cold weather clothing: I am quite sure a t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes are not recommended outerwear for January.

It is cold.

My subconscious knows exactly where I’m going—back to you, back to those warm arms and that lovely smell, back to that long, dark brown hair and those emerald eyes.

I run up right onto your front porch and ring the doorbell as the fatigue of running nearly two miles at full speed hits me—I double over, put my hands on my knees, and stand there, gasping for breath, as you open the door.

“Lia?” I hear your voice call, and I look up into those blindingly green eyes, marred with confusion.

“I made a mistake, Elijah,” I say. “I was wrong. I love you, too, Elijah. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I should have told you that when you told me Sunday. I shouldn’t have told you it was over, because it isn’t—not if I have anything to do with it, I mean,” I added breathlessly, gazing up into your face and trying not to cry, but failing.

You hesitate for a second before taking me into your arms, giving me a hug so tight I swear it could crack my ribs, and I hear you whisper, your voice breaking, before you kiss me: “Thank god you’re back.”