Night swimming, we threw our clothes haphazardly in a heap on the kaleidoscope of grey pebbles by the lake. Like dipping ourselves in honey, the silk ripples of each passing wave stuck to our bodies. Our faces floated, barely peaking above the surface of the water. We looked like fleshy mountain caps, our noses and lips pointed to the sky. Our suspended bodies curved into crescent moons as our arms stretched out like shooting stars in the lake. “We were never really that old,” I hear someone say. “We’re never really old enough,” another echoes. I nod in agreement, my head bobbing like a buoy – like a boy who has all the answer. “I think we’ll get there,” I finally say. I hear a quick flick of feet and someone disappears beneath the dark blanket of the water, diving towards the clay earth at the bottom. They anchor their hands into the soft sediment and grab fistfuls of the spongy dirt. They press it into their palms and roll it between their fingers; they are a part of it all, while we drift above. “I think we’ll get there,” I repeat to no one in particular.