23

She cleans the lens of the camera and wedges it between a rock and a branch and presses play.

At first he stands there alone, hands in his pockets. A yellow and black winter hat with a fuzzy puff ball hangs off the end. Maroon vest over a sweatshirt. January and he doesn’t seem to mind it.

The sky is mostly clear. A couple cirrus clouds. Along the horizon a light orange hue hints at the end of a short winter day. The Atlantic just stretches behind him.

She steps into frame a little off balance on the rocks, already smiling. She reaches for him and he lets her in like it’s already understood.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders from behind, clasps her hands in front of him. He brings his hand up to meet hers without looking. She leans into him, buries her face into his neck, kisses it. He smiles but tries not to show it.

For a second they just stay there like that.

Then they turn toward each other and kiss. Not planned. Not paused for. It just happens like it was always going to.

They laugh after, still close, like nothing really changed.

He reaches out toward the lighthouse in the distance, lining it up in his hand like he’s holding it. Just messing around. She watches him, then joins in.

Later he walks up toward the camera with his hands pressed together like a joke, like he’s thanking something or someone. She follows, still laughing, still in it.

They don’t really know how to end it so they don’t. It just trails off.

I don’t remember what they were saying that day.

But this stayed.

And in it is everything they didn’t say.