Rachel

You sit on an old wooden jetty, your feet dangling over the dark, slightly murky water, reflecting thousands of stars. The sea is calm today, only occasionally lapping lazily at the wooden piles beneath you.

“Remember the first time we came here?” Rachel breaks the silence, turns to you, and there are still the same sparkles in her eyes as three years ago.

“You said then that you hate the sea,” you grin, “because the water is salty, there’s sand everywhere, and the waves ruin your hairdo.”

• You're lying! - She hits you on the forearm, laughing, but immediately presses closer. - I didn't say that.

You catch her hand, intertwining your fingers—her silver ring on her index finger is cold from the night air.

— She said so. But then she still went swimming in a dress.

She laughs, and the sound is parallel to the sound of the surf. You've noticed for a long time: when she laughs for real, her nose wrinkles, and large bags shine under her eyes.

• So what? You dragged me there yourself, - she throws her head back, looks at the night sky. - But then you dried me off for two hours, because I had to get home.

You don't answer. You just watch the wind play with her jet-black hair, the stars reflected in her brown irises. And suddenly you realize: this is it. That feeling that never fades, even when you know her every mole, every stupid habit.

• What are you thinking about? - She squints and turns to you.

You lean down and kiss her temple, slightly sticky from the sea salt. You don't understand this sudden impulse. You don't understand what's happening. Rachel froze, looking at you.

• That you are still just as stubborn.

“You’re still so sentimental,” she lifts her chin, and now her lips are a centimeter from yours.

Pause.

“Do you know that I love you?” Rachel’s voice is quiet, calm. But you know – she’s worried, her fingers are clenched into a fist, and the pupils in her eyes are slightly trembling.

At this moment, somewhere far away, a star falls. But you don't care anymore.