Lockscreen, Ethan Chen

Camilla’s skin felt like memory foam, softer than a pillow. Her body was warm, like a cake fresh out of the oven. On top of the hill we were on, she was lying perpendicular to me. I was sitting up against the tall birch tree and her head was on my lap. Her hair, in all of its midnight glory, was spread out on my legs and the grass. I could hear our favorite song, Glimpse Of Us, playing from somewhere. Probably one of our phones. I didn’t really care where it was coming from. I was just happy to be with Camilla.

We had just come from dinner at The Raven’s Table, a cute cafe in town. Despite us previously agreeing to go home after dinner, since we did spend over 12 hours together prior to eating at The Raven’s, we ultimately ended up at the hill where we first met. She was picking flowers for her grandmother and I was sitting by the birch tree, writing a poem. I was stroking Camilla’s hair as she talked excitedly about how she and I were going to live together in a big yellow house with three floors and a wrap-around porch. Her amber eyes glistened in the light of the setting sun. Colors danced on the horizon, the sky their stage.

She asked me what I thought about our plan. I told her we should just skip college and run away together. She laughed her contagious laugh. A laugh that washed away all of the hate and anger in my soul. A laugh that constantly told me that she loved me for how I am, despite who I was.

I told Camilla that she was beautiful and took a selfie of us with my phone. She told me she was comfortable resting on my lap and I told her that her laying on me made me comfortable. Safe. Happy. Her smile was bright enough to light every city on the Earth and powerful enough to achieve world peace. She told me that I was handsome, even more so than the chiseled Greek statues we saw at museums. That comment deserved a kiss. I should have given her a dozen. Unfortunately, darkness came too quickly and it was time for one to become two.

Camilla jumped into her white Lexus after giving me a warm, tight hug and raced away, telling me she had a surprise for me on our two-year anniversary the next day. I watched her car until the red of her tail lights disappeared in the woods. I got into my car, a humble 2010 Subaru Forester, and went home. Glimpse Of Us was still playing.

I woke myself up, forgetting I set the song as my alarm to wake me up from my nap. My mother, with her delicate face, knocked three times on my blue bedroom door, before coming in my room. I was still under my covers. My pillows were damp. I turned over to silence the alarm. The lock screen on my phone was the selfie I took of that day on the hill with the birch tree.

“Quickly get ready, honey. We’ll be late to her wake.”