And these things are worth remembering.

Lark has always thought memory was important. It was why he took the photos, and as a child, even, he told himself at intervals to try and remember specific moments.

Now, the things that stay with him are strange and small. He remembers when he was only six years old, telling himself to remember his first piano recital. There's not much he can pull up from it besides the laminated wood flooring on a stage, like an indoor basketball court, and the feeling of being too small for the piano stool. Mostly, he remembers the remembering, the seeming importance of the act, all tied up with the imagined tragedy of forgetting.

The fragments he has from his school years are all shattered detail: construction-paper hearts hung up in his second-grade classroom, the metallic scattering of the walkman he dropped running for the bus, a hurricane downpour through the window of his deserted high school, driving to the shore and listening to the radio.

From Portland, he has a very particular memory of walking out of the recording studio in the blue twilight of early evening and feeling grateful for the life he was living. For the hi-fi recording of his work, for the kindness and talent of Jules, the hours he got to spend doing what he loved. The swell in his chest took him off guard and filled him with uncharacteristic optimism. He sang out loud in the parking lot, even, a melody that came to him already made.

He thought about that a lot, for a while, at work or when he walked in on Max and Dana making out in the living room. Think of how happy you are, he told himself.

It was only yesterday, only a week ago, a month, and now years and years in the past.

Still, to this day, he sometimes tries to pull up that particular moment.

Looking at Oli next to him in the grass, he tries again.

It doesn't quite work. He's too tired, maybe.

Lark reaches out and touches Oli's hand with the back of his fingers. Oli doesn't pull away. Instead, he turns his palm around to catch Lark's hand in his.

Neither of them says anything.

Jules booked us some recording time at a local studio. It was a small place, comfortably used, the floors covered in layers of drum mats and worn out Persian rug imitations. Max and I laid down the basic tracks for a four-song EP in the egg-crated booth. Jules, working the mixing desk, could see us through a little window in our soundproof box. Max still rolled his eyes when they reprimanded him off for deviating from the click. Jules didn't say anything, just pressed their lips together, face ghostly white in the computer light.

We spent the better part of a day getting the whole thing tracked. It was a process I quite enjoyed: repetition and practice. Listening back to Jules' rough mix. Trying to fix things. It was more of a purgatorial experience for Max, who complained that he couldn't hear anything, couldn't feel the music. He blamed his vocal mix, the microphones, the headphones; he wanted a beer.

Jules prioritized getting Max's tracks done, and said placating things into my headphones while I listened. I spent the afternoon with my head on my arms, folded over my keyboards and soaking up the warmth from the electronics.

When his last vocal was down, Max asked if he could go. Jules shrugged, dazed and tired by the effort it took them not to start a fight. We both watched Max pack his guitar and pedals, go into Jules' to pack up his bag. It was quiet in the airless bubble of the recording booth. Neither Max nor Jules spoke. My heart jumped wildly, thinking of their icy silence.

Even when Max was gone, Jules just sat in front of the mixer. The computer screen reflected in their glasses, and I couldn't see their eyes. They raked both hands slowly through their pastel hair; for the first time in our acquaintance, their roots were visibly dark.

Did you want Max to stay? I asked after a while.

Jules shook their head and said something I couldn't hear through the glass. Then their voice was in my headphones, saying: Not really. To be frank. But I expected him to.

We tracked the rest of my keyboard parts that evening, just the two of us. I had never recorded with anyone other than Max, never on studio time, and I felt very aware of every mistake, every time I had to go back and repeat a line. Jules spoke to me gently, their voice right in my ears, warm and draped in mic hiss. You're doing great, they said. Don't worry. You can take as much time as you want. They told me about other bands that could use a keyboardist and asked me about session work while I shook out my hands between takes.

There was still an hour of paid time left when we'd finished, and Jules convinced me to sing some accompaniments for each track.

Max won't like it, I warned them.

Max isn't here, they said. We can tweak it later anyway.

They continued fiddling with the mix while I loaded my synthesizers and pedals into their cases, lugged them back to the door.

Come have a listen, Jules said and passed me their headphones. I stood behind them, so I could watch the track scroll across the screen, the crystalline bleeps visible in colored waveforms. We sounded as good as we'd ever sounded: the electronics like arcade music in a codeine dream, their programmed complexity cleanly rendered. My voice, doubled behind Max's, was an alien echo.

Jules leaned back in the studio chair, and their head came to rest against my stomach. I felt very aware of my body, tense, and twitching at the contact. Still, I put my hands gently on their shoulders and rubbed my thumbs over the knot of muscle at the base of their neck.

Jules' eyes were closed. With their glasses off, they looked soft and accessible, thin-skinned.