By Lily Braden

I am standing on the outer bank, my waders tight with the additional four sweaters I put on this morning. My feet are numb. 

You are standing with your back to me. Your bleached hair is messy and your arms swing back and forth as you perfect the sound of the swoosh of your fishing reel, the line reflecting off the river.

At this moment, I don’t know what is to come. I don’t know that in two weeks’ time, I will sit with you in your mother’s living room, the condensation of my cranberry vodka threatening to stain the wood table, with your laughter echoing, your hand on my knee. I don’t know that in four weeks’ time, I will stand out in the morning cold, barefoot, watching you dash outside, my eyes darting back and forth between the door and your back after a night of clean sheets, stale air-conditioning, and late-night whispers. 

I am lucky I don’t know; I don’t think I would know how special it would be. I don’t think I would know how sweet.

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Lily Braden is a junior studying English Education in the College of Arts and Sciences and the School of Education. She was born and raised in Portland, Oregon. Lily is passionate about educating her peers on mental health, planning OAD events, and working with first-year students.