Most nights he stays in his room to study. On the rare occasion, when he goes out, it is to purchase groceries or other ordinary snack food that can keep him company as he clacks his fingers over the keys and into the night. He writes her letters and emails, but never sends them. He picks up the phone and puts it down. This is his routine and daily ritual. He thinks of her often.

She likes to party. Finally apart from her ‘perfect’ childhood, she feels that she is finally free. She’ll try anything once and everything twice. In the few times that she relaxes in her room, usually during Intro to Philosophy, she examines the few pictures she has taped to the wall. She doesn’t think of him often, but when she does, she smiles.

( Many of the campus study-friends get together on weekends to unwind, and his first party is a quiet one. )

She'd always had the scent of lavender, and the warm summer's breeze carried it over to me as I smiled at her from the back porch. One foot braced against the wooden railing, I pushed my chair up on its back legs, rocking gently. The sky was a warm, pinkish orange; the sort of creamy color of rainbow sherbet. It was our first summer as adults, and each of us had plans to go our separate ways come autumn. I would be sad to leave her, along with several of our other friends, but for now the only thing that mattered was our remaining summer days.

( Her feet were bare, and she ran her toes through the green grass as she leaned back on the porch. )