The smell of fresh-cut grass clung to my fingers when I picked her up from the party. It wasn't until that night that she told me what it meant, how it reminded her of her childhood in Wisconsin, summer barbecues and siblings tumbling out of trees. I thought it just smelled like cut grass to me, but I let that slide, pretending I understood the nostalgia in her eyes. We walked hand in hand along the lake, the only sound of distant fireworks and my awkward humming along to the songs playing in the air; my attempts at fitting in.
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