Nothing either of us think is true anymore. When we were living in Winter Hill I told a story about melting my shoe on a fire pit and a year later Polina remembered it happening. It was cold, she said. We were gathered around the embers. We lived over the railroad tracks that went nowhere and beneath the school that was being built slowly. On nights like this, we’d lower an extension cord out our kitchen window and the whole city would light up. You could see the lights from the construction site where we liked to go at the end of the night, even after they blocked it off. Stepping over the easy barricade to talk about nothing but the moon. Way up here, it was the only thing above us. And we were bent on what we hadn’t yet touched. We wanted to talk to no one but strangers. Where were all the strangers? Just the glowing dark. I often think I’ve been places I’ve never been. I see the city lights and remember crawling into each and every window. It’s devastating. Each and every window. Which is why most nights end above the city, speeding toward the one bright thing we can’t imagine we’ll ever reach.