North Star

We slip into the boat in the heat of darkness, aiming to cross the river that is a ribbon of quiet. The mist rises from the water’s surface. A gentle breeze brushes past, carrying with it the scent of water and wood and faun. Fireflies hum quietly from both shores, their glow flickering.

Above, the sky is veiled in clouds, soft and shapeless, their weight hiding most of the stars. Only one remains—a faint, flickering light in the distance. The North Star. It's a hint, not a promise.

We become so enchanted with the night and the moment, with the promise of the North Star—that we set our oars back. We find each other's eyes shining in the bare glint, our lips locked tight, our arms nestled in each other. We know no night is ever going to be this one. 

We pull away for a instant and share a glance with half-formed smiles, as if the night has let us in on a secret we are only starting to realize. Where we hope the boat—or star—will take us doesn’t matter. It’s there. It's where we are right now.