And this is a perfect metaphor for us: Fire and water. Flames and frost. Hot and cold, burning and freezing. Opposites.

See? she said as it started to come together. All you have to do is take your time. And I thought I got what she meant: that every little thing about me and everything about you would eventually mix and mingle into something smooth and new. But she didn’t answer my question. So with flour-dusted fingers, I asked it again. Why can’t we just be

We each want to eat the other up. There’s no one to scream no. No one to stop us from devouring each other. If we were anything more than whatever the hell we already are, there would be no survivors, I tell him. Do you understand? He nods slowly and grips the wheel tighter. I look out the window again and my chest aches from the gorgeous, sad

I’ll be your shade, you said. Open your eyes.

You were a hurricane I couldn’t help but wait for. A wave I wanted to be swallowed by. I was armed and ready to be overtaken by the ocean of you.

Do something with me, I type, then erase. Let’s do something together, I type, then erase. I want to do something with you, I type, then erase. Dammit, I say. I don’t want to be alone, I think, full of angst and agony, but don’t even lift my thumbs to the screen. And then, in one of our synced mental moments, the ones I both love and hate, you

We were watching trailers of all our favorite ’80s movies: The Breakfast Club and The Outsiders. Dirty Dancing and Dead Poets Society.

We ignored how there were no brown faces to be found

Everything about you was dark, gorgeous, and round: a cluster of clouds filled with desire instead of rain.