The concentrated glitter of headlights waiting to be cast off. I drop my friend’s lighter off the pier, where it’s lost to Lake Erie’s dark, rocky shores. Nights after the sun sets the wind tosses off the lake and I hug my knees to my chest. Every time I go home I find myself nearly unable to leave. Like home is the past, and if I stay there longer it’ll be like we’ve changed the present. I willfully refuse reality. It hurts more now than it ever has. I tell my mother I don’t want to leave this time and she says everyone leaves and this is true but we all come back.