We each have our own paths to follow, in our places. Like Ao said, "There's no going back." Sorrow surged then, silently, like water inside him. A formless, transparent sorrow. A sorrow he could touch, yet something that was also far away, out of reach. Pain struck him, as if gouging out his chest, and he could barely breathe.

But such bliss couldn't last forever. At some point paradise would be lost. They would each mature at different rates, take different paths in life. As time passed, an unavoidable sense of unease would develop among them, a subtle fault line, no doubt turning into something less than "subtle.

People leave traces of themselves where they feel most comfortable, most worthwhile.

Writing from memory like this, I often feel a pang of dread. What if I've forgotten the most important thing? What if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud?

The whiff of ocean on the southern breeze and the smell of burning asphalt brought back memories of summers past. It had seemed as though those sweet dreams of summer would last forever: the warmth of a girl’s skin, an old rock ‘n’ roll song, freshly washed button-down shirt, the odor of cigarette smoke in a pool changing room, a fleeting premonition. Then one summer (when had it been?) the dreams had vanished, never to return.

I would never see her again, except in memory. She was here, and now she's gone. There is no middle ground. Probably is a word that you may find south of the border. But never, ever west of the sun.

I'm your phantom dance partner. I'm your shadow. I'm not anything more.

—¿No te parece extraño? —dijo entonces Eri. —¿El qué? —Que esa época tan asombrosa haya quedado atrás y ya nunca vaya a regresar. Que tantas posibilidades fabulosas hayan desaparecido, como si el tiempo se las hubiera tragado.