I am tempted by the unforeseen—the way a beach wave sounds crashing into the sand, a tiny apartment in the heart of San Jose, bustling with busy feet and smells of fresh stirfry. Places I long to explore and grow roots, where no one knows my name. But I am also tempted by the familiar. The welcoming cadence of the future I can return to, like an open country field stretching out for miles and miles, the wheat honey-gold in the sunset.

I am tempted by what I don’t quite understand—the unexpected softness of a stranger’s lips on mine, the quiet exchange of looks across a crowded bar, the way I can still hear a certain voice in the back of my mind when I close my eyes.

I am tempted by what is to come—early mornings with light poking through window blinds, sheets tangled around my legs, waking warm and satisfied. Or love, this big embrace, arms outstretched and strong on this nameless, faceless, lover I’ll one day meet, or maybe already know.

And I am tempted by what I have not yet felt, a lightning bug buzzing against the sides of my closed palm, desperate for summer air and the chance to shine his light into the sky.