Adèle looked down at the imaginary paint on her hand, then back at Emma. Her eyes were the color of a stormy sea, but in the dim light of the studio, they burned like the heart of a flame.

One night, Adèle came over to Emma’s tiny studio apartment. The rain was back, heavier this time. Adèle was shivering. Emma wrapped her in a frayed blue blanket she’d had since she was fifteen.

For the first time, she reached out and touched Emma’s cheek. Her fingers were cold from the rain, but the gesture—that was summer.

The girl's name was Adèle. She was a literature student who wrote everything in that blue notebook—poems, grocery lists, letters she’d never send. She had a way of tilting her head when she listened, like she was trying to hear the silence between your words.

A girl walked in, her dark hair plastered to her forehead from the drizzle. She was carrying a thick, water-stained notebook the exact shade of a peacock’s throat. Cobalt. Electric. Alive.

Emma never believed in love at first sight until she saw the girl with the blue notebook.