There's a fascination in the details. Lexi thinks she's a blind spot, an unnoticed dawn; you think she's a treasure, a shard of a meteor shower. You laugh on her bed, shutting off Cassie and the whole world with a curtain; she talks about the birth of supernovas, and you nod, not knowing what the hell a supernova is. Lexi finally talks, smiles, and rests her head on your shoulder while you rummage through your school locker—that's what friends do, but you kiss after the sun goes down and disbelievingly declare your love all over again.

Lexi thinks Cassie is the one who gets hung up on the little things, but without knowing it, she adds in picture small, almost imperceptible strokes, but that's the only way it becomes complete. You go out, bicycles lying on the soft, fragrant grass. The plaid tickles the skin under your dress; she pulls you down and smiles shyly. And she's still wearing the same cherry perfume because you complimented it once, the red lipstick that leaves an imprint on your cheek, and the boundless tenderness that there was no one else to give it to.

Lexi is easy; she's like fresh dew on an early misty morning where beauty is only shown to those who have been patient for it to appear; the rays shimmer across her hair, and she keeps talking and talking, so engrossed in putting on her play. And then she fleetingly brushes a blade of grass out of your hair as if it were nothing. But it isn't, because Lexi is noticed, seen, like the moon, only reflecting other people's light but beautiful and mysterious to its astronomer.

"Hey," she laughs softly, wrinkling her nose. "You're not listening to me."

Indeed. But Howard only smiles and takes a strawberry from the plastic container, dipping it in melted chocolate—just because that wish slipped off your lips last month. And she, so clever and smart, remembers. Love is in the details.

"No, seriously, listen," Lexi snorts, stubbornly returning your attention, playing with a strand of your hair. "A whole play, can you imagine?"