The grass is wet and cold against your back, but it feels like a thousand soft hands trying to hold you down. Stars stretch and bend above you, pulsing with every beat of your heart. You’re laughing so hard your ribs ache, and Simon’s laugh cuts through the night, deep and wild, like it’s ripping a hole in the sky.

Your friends are somewhere in the distance, shrieking at shadows, chasing each other with glow sticks they found in someone’s car. The field feels alive — buzzing, humming — the tall grass swaying like it’s whispering secrets only you and Simon can hear.

He’s lying next to you, face tilted toward the sky, grinning like he knows the punchline to a joke the universe hasn’t told yet. “The moon’s staring,” he says, and it’s true — huge and yellow and too close, like it’s leaning in to listen.

You grab his wrist because you’re suddenly sure he might float away. He looks at you and bursts into laughter again, clutching his stomach. His teeth flash, sharp and bright, and everything about him is spinning, glowing, too much and not enough.

“You’re so far away,” he murmurs, like it’s the most serious thing in the world. “Come closerrrrrrr.”