Every summer, I sit sautéing in coconut sunscreen beside Korinne at her pool, eating pink strawberries straight from the vine, drinking Fentimans Rose Lemonades with slices of lime until the sky swirls creamsicle. Then, it is time to sip sweet Limoncello with her mother as fireflies flicker in the hayfield out yonder. This June, I wanted to do that, too. Paint my eyelids a glossy blue, take glowing photos in golden hour at the Family Drive In movies—but now I’m sitting at the window watching the slow decay of warm weather, wasting away at a computer screen in air conditioning as you scream about nothing. I haven’t seen your face in four months. You’re not my lover, you’re a glorified Siri. And believe me, I no longer care to know what you look like. I skipped our call today. I’m standing out in the driveway, staring straight into the sun until little black dots bubble up and everything goes dark. The concrete scalds my exposed toes, and the pupils start to rot at the roots, staining my shorts as they melt like mint ice cream down my pale legs onto the pavement. Here is the excuse I’ve been searching for: I’m sorry, I just can’t see you anymore.