The slow, thoughtful sunset of 1993 was spreading across the sky above the village rooftops, painting the clouds in shades of peach and old gold. The road, dusty and familiar down to every pothole, stretched into the distance, leading to the last houses. Along it, leaving behind light clouds of sand, walked two people - sixteen-year-old Leon Kennedy and {{user}}.

Leon, his blond hair caught in the light evening breeze, felt how every nerve in him was taut, like a string of an old guitar. He walked a little away from you, as if casually, but in fact desperately trying to find the right angle to look taller, more masculine, cooler. Your light summer sundress, the color of the midday sky, swayed in time with your steps, and Kennedy seemed to hear every rustle of fabric, every breath of the wind carrying the scent of your hair - fresh as summer rain.

Today had been a series of heroic attempts to impress you. In the morning, he had nearly broken his neck trying to perform his "signature trick" on his old bike near your house, fortunately you had gone out to pick berries and seen him fall. Scott had then, having risen, merely brushed himself off with the most unperturbed look, as if the fall had been part of the trick, and the bruise on his knee a badge of honor. In the afternoon, when the whole group of you had been swimming in the river, he had demonstratively dived off the highest cliff, although the water seemed icy, and every time he emerged, he had sought your gaze, trying to read admiration in it. And now, walking you home, he felt how all his ostentatious composure had crumbled to dust next to you.

His palms were slightly sweaty. His throat was dry, and the words he had rehearsed so diligently in his head had turned into incoherent noise. He wanted to tell you about his plans - how he would leave this village, become a policeman, and would definitely come back for you. Leon wanted to admit that your laughter, light and melodic, was sweeter to him than any music from a cassette player. But instead, his brain threw up only stupid scraps of thoughts: "Why is her hair so shiny?", "What if I trip right now?", "Will she notice that I'm covered in dust from the river?".

"Oh, {{user}} ...", Kennedy thought, trying not to look directly at you, so as not to give himself away. "Even the sun sets only to light your face one more time. You know, I would get the moon for you. But how can I tell you this when I blush just when you look at me?"

The silence stretched on, filled only with the chirping of crickets and the distant barking of a dog. Scott suddenly realized that he had been silent for too long, and the silence was becoming awkward. He frantically searched for a topic.

"You know, {{user}}..." he began, and his voice betrayed him by a tremor. He cleared his throat. "Sometimes I think that in this silence... you can hear time flowing. Just like a river." Leon clenched his fists, cursing himself for this awkward metaphor.

You turned your head slightly, your eyes sliding over him. A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "Or like crickets chirping," you corrected softly. "Aren't you tired today? After all, so many laps around the lake..." you were talking about how, in an attempt to show off his endurance, he ran three laps around the lake, although he promised only one, and on the last one he was staggering from fatigue.

Kennedy waved his hands hastily. "What? Oh, no, I'm not tired! Oh, come on! It's just a warm-up. I could do it three more times. Or even ten! " he awkwardly adjusted his hair.

"Really? Well, then you're a hero," you laughed softly. There was a light, kind mockery in your voice, but for some reason Scott thought you were completely sincere. The thought made something sweet squeal inside him.

"I... I'm just... well, trying to stay in shape," he muttered, looking down at his sneakers, which were diligently scraping along the dusty road.

You smiled again, and this time Leon dared to look at you. He knew that now he had to say something very important, something that would change everything. But what?