For This Summer to End

📝 The Story:

It was the summer of everything—of first glances and last chances. Of long days that bled into each other and nights where the stars felt closer than ever.

It was the summer before everything changed.

And I didn’t want it to end.

☀️ The House by the Lake

My grandparents' lake house had always been a quiet place—paint peeling, porch creaking, and the water whispering like a secret. But this summer, it wasn’t quiet. Not with all of us there.

There was my older cousin Noah, back from college with sunburnt skin and reckless ideas. There was Layla, my best friend since we were eight, now suddenly taller and quieter, carrying a journal she never let me read. And then there was me—somewhere between wanting to stay a kid and desperately trying not to be one anymore.

We swam until our fingers wrinkled. We roasted marshmallows until we couldn’t look at fire without craving sugar. We told ghost stories and pretended to be afraid, but we were mostly afraid of growing up.

Because we could feel it coming.

🌻 The Moment Everything Shifted

One golden evening, the sun kissed the water, and I saw Noah teaching Layla how to skip stones. I watched from the porch, unnoticed. There was a softness between them I hadn’t seen before. A private kind of laughter. A glance that lingered.

I looked away, heart tightening. Not because I was in love with either of them, but because something sacred was changing—and I couldn’t stop it.

That night, Layla sat next to me in the hammock, journal in her lap.

“I wrote a poem about endings,” she said quietly.

“Read it?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

The crickets chirped. The hammock swayed. And I wondered how many more nights we had left before life would pull us in different directions.

🌬️ A Windy Morning and the Broken Dock

A storm came through one night and tore the old dock in half. We woke to broken planks floating like forgotten promises.

It felt symbolic.

“That dock was older than me,” Noah joked, kicking a bit of wood back into the lake. But his voice cracked slightly, betraying the sadness he didn’t want to show.

We rebuilt it the best we could. Hammered and laughed and cursed at the sun. It took all day, and when we finished, we stood at the edge like kings of our own little world.

I whispered a wish into the wind: Let this summer last just a little longer.

🌙 A Confession Under Moonlight

On the second-to-last night, Layla finally handed me her journal.

“It’s yours now,” she said. “I don’t want to take it with me.”

It was full of sketches, poetry, fragments of feelings, and one sentence underlined three times:

"I fell in love the moment he taught me how to skip stones."

I didn’t ask who she meant. I didn’t need to.

I hugged her tightly. "Are you going to tell him?"

She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Sometimes, it’s enough just to feel something. Not everything has to become something more.”

🌄 The Last Day

We packed up the house on the hottest day of the year. Boxes, bags, leftover memories.

The car was loaded. Layla’s parents had arrived. Noah had left early that morning, scribbling a note on a napkin: Don’t grow up too fast, okay?

I stood on the porch one last time, letting the lake etch itself into my memory.

Layla hugged me tightly.

“This summer…” I began.

She nodded. “I know.”

We didn’t say goodbye. Just see you

But some part of me knew—it would never be quite the same again.

🍂 For This Summer to End

Now, years later, I still think about that summer.

Not because it was the most exciting or eventful—but because it was the last time life felt simple. Before jobs, heartbreaks, bills, goodbyes. Before we became adults with separate lives.

I keep Layla’s journal in a drawer. I never added to it. I didn’t need to. That summer was complete in itself.

And every time I visit the lake house, I still find pieces of us there—in the water, the stars, and the dock we built together.

It was the summer of first truths.

And I carry it with me… still not quite ready for it to end.