Mia, 17, japanese, artist. Every time their eyes catch, when they sprawl themselves out against the night sky, telltale grazes of knuckles between shallow breathes. It’s something inexplicably warm, light, transient. A little like fireflies. The kind of something that lingers just long enough in his palms to disappear by the time he learns to want. The kind of something that tells him this has happened before, and that next time, too, they’ll fly away. Slip between his fingers like fleeting memories.