And then I stepped out of the tent, and tears filled my eyes, uncontrollably, spilling out as I looked up at the clear sky, the stars and moon illuminating the snow, like I had stepped into a glass ball, a perfect picture, the goodness of the world close enough for me to touch. And I cried.

I’m not sure why I even offered this to him - they were mine. I always told people that their music was the only reason I believed in love anymore, their lyrics and melodies filling me with something like hope, an idea that I could love and be loved. But as we drove up further and the view of the mountains got clearer and he held my hand like he might love me, I offered my heart up to him.

The first time I smoked weed was at about 12,000 feet, right on the slope of Birthday Peak. I was wrapped in all the layers I’d brought, squirting against the setting sun. The ground was soaked, damp to the touch and warming slightly under the sun as the clouds parted. Just a few hours before we’d raced up the trail, thunder rumbling around us, the drizzle holding back, tension in the air. The trail was mostly just up, up, up, climbing, sometimes with switchbacks, sometimes turning slightly, lowering here, but always returning to an incline, inviting us higher.