We were eight years old, you a month and three days exactly older. It was sincere and green and exciting and, and, and—I had to move away. All the same, I held onto the angel figurine with the space enough to hold a secret inside, right in its tiny, breakable china doll arms. We were seventeen, or I would be in two days. I could not believe we were allowed to go out on the water and view the fireworks for the fourth of July by ourselves—it was all moving too fast, so I couldn’t stay. Still, I remembered the awkwardness and petering off until it ended conversations afterwards. We were twenty and in college together. You walked me to my car every Monday and Wednesday evening, sincere and funny and kind and, and, and—the sentiments were ages on a calendar, and we went our separate ways. I think you finally realized I would never be ready for that childhood dream, and I suppose those feelings will always be in that secret hollow, innocent and fragile.