I’ve awoken to you four times in my life.

The first, snug from the cold in my green sleeping bag, I awoke, and saw you, eyes closed in the sand, and I could see the light behind the mountains growing brighter and brighter, the sunlight creeping through the petals of the wildflowers toward us. And you opened your eyes, smiling at me. “Happy birthday.” I said, and the light overwhelmed us.

The second time, I opened my eyes and saw the frayed edges of the distant mountains, and I felt your arm hanging over me, your feet knotted with mine, and your chest was pushed against my back. And when you opened your emerald eyes, you looked at me, and said something sleep-ridden and strange that made me laugh.

The third time, I heard you calling my name, telling me to wake up, and you grabbed my shoulders, and it was so bright all I could see was you and the white glare of the afternoon sun blazing at your back.

The fourth time, I opened my eyes, my body tangled in soft blue blankets, pale sheets twisted at my toes, and you were above me, whispering my name.

The fifth time was different, because I woke you up instead of the other was around. I rolled out of bed and looked out my window, seeing snow coating my backyard. I went to you, placing my hand on your shoulder and told you to look outside. You saw the snow, smiling adorably. You had to leave that morning. I remember because you hugged me and didn’t let go.