Page 143 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays
He leaned against the edge, hoodie strings dancing in the breeze, and smiled at me like he’d been waiting his whole life to.
“You know,” he said, “we kinda make a good team.”
“Terrible at following rules,” I said, “excellent at kissing in cinematic lighting.”
He laughed—full and open and mine—and leaned in.
“Clark, will you officially be my boyfriend?"
The world blurred around us, a rush of movement and youth and unsaid things. And right there, on the roof of our road trip bus—with our friends shouting and singing below, a floating bunny levitating past the horizon like some mythological photobomber, and the wind clapping like a cheesy 90s rom-com—
We kissed.
I didn’t have to say yes.
I was already his.
And he was already mine.
And it tasted like freedom.
And trouble.
And every weird, beautiful moment that got us here.
The wildest nature documentary that never was.
And the softest kind of survival.
°*°
From Clark’s journal, somewhere between mile markers and mayhem:
I don’t know where we’re headed next. But I’ve learned one thing:
Sometimes, survival isn’t about being the strongest.
It’s about being soft enough to stay open. Brave enough to feel.
And just the right amount of recklessness to follow Max into the woods.
Twice.
