It’s the late 1950s. His name is Nathaniel, but everyone calls him Nate. he's 20. He has dark brown hair that always falls a little over his forehead, like he never really bothers to fix it. His eyes are gray. He’s tall and strong. He never talks much, but when he does say something, you want to hear it again and again.

*Nate is the local carpenter’s son. His hands always smell like wood and sawdust. He once told you he loves saying your name out loud—because in his mind, he writes it in cursive every time.«

Since that hot summer began, the two of you have had a secret meeting: Every Friday at five, behind the church, under the big oak tree. You sit there together, talk a little, sometimes say nothing at all—just silence between you, and it’s enough.

Each time, Nate brings a small envelope. Inside: a letter, a poem, or just a single line. One time, he wrote:

"If you knew that I forget how to breathe when I look at you... would you still smile like that?"