He wanted to see my room.

He had given me so much, in both secular items and The Other Category. It was my turn to give him something with which to remember me in his coming absence (the summer months can be slow and lonely when there are oceans between.)

As I opened the door I let loose my usual torrent of warnings:

my room is a mess my house is a mess my closet is a mess my head is a mess my –

“I love it,” he said earnestly, eyes tumbling from my file cabinet, to my empty, ancient bird cage, to my piano, to my bookshelf with alphabetical categories, to my glow-in-the-dark dinosaur stickers, to my bed with the fishies on the sheets, to my nervous face. “It’s so… you.”

I smiled and he smiled back.

“So what do you want?” I asked, scanning my endless assortment of knickknacks for a suitable gift.

“Your choice.”

It took a while but eventually I decided on a necklace I made—“because you gave me that ring”—a miniature raccoon figurine—“because I know how much you love ferrets, and this is as close as I can get”—and a clothespin that looked like a butterfly—“to match your wings.”

He kissed me because they were just right.

“We should go back downstairs now,” I murmured sadly. He had a train to catch, and I had a boy to start missing.

“You’re right.”

We stood. “Wait,” I declared suddenly; he twitched.

I leaned against my pillow. “Kiss me here so that I can think about it when I’m falling asleep tonight.”

He laughed in that perfect, shocked countenance of his and lied down beside me. “You are so quirky.”

“I know.”

It was a very nice kiss.