Leaning out my window, I feel the cool air graze my skin, a silky breeze mussing my hair. It’s getting late, yet I’m completely awake. I haven’t slept yet, and it’s almost 12:30. I haven’t felt this awake in a long time, the restless urge to move tugging at me relentlessly. Sleep would be impossible, I know, but I can’t walk around aimlessly like I would at home. It’s dark, everyone is asleep, and I’ll be alone. It’s exactly what I want, to roam freely, barefoot and quiet. But I know if anything happened to me, my mother would never forgive me. Before leaving home, she made me promise to stop going on my midnight strolls. They were safe on the farm with the dogs, exploring my own property for miles and never seeing a road. Yet, I’m trapped in my room at university now, and it’s not safe to walk around in the dark here. Roads are everywhere, concrete paths cutting through fields, and streetlights too far apart.

I’m a loud person. I can’t stand silence, except at night. When it’s dark like this, and quiet. All the good students are tucked in bed; exams are in the morning, my last one in approximately eight and a half hours. I can’t force myself to lie in bed though. I just want to walk, to soak in the silence on my own accord. I’ve been pacing my room all night, my textbooks and notes splayed across my desk haphazardly. I can’t seem to sit for longer than an hour at a time as the night trudges on.

Inching closer to the window ledge, I breathe in. My dorm room is on the second floor. I can look down and watch people roam by day and most nights, but it’s less busy since exams started. I pine to go downstairs, to walk around. The key to my door rests in my hand comfortably; what if I brought my cell phone? I stare at it resting on my bedside table, charging away faithfully, already ready to go.

Things have been stressful at home recently. I may not live there anymore, but my siblings tell me everything, and health affects everyone. I feel so cut off, but that could be a good thing – from what I hear, I’m far better off away.

Shadows shift beneath me, on the main concrete path where light filters down unnaturally from a streetlamp. I listen carefully and hold my breath. It’s interesting seeing people like this, when they don’t know they’re being watched. No one ever looks up. My window is tucked behind a tall conifer, but if you know where to look, I’m easy to spot. I see the shadows on concrete shift first, then a lean figure appears. Long strides flow in a familiar pattern, yet slower than normal. It’s him.

Jordan and I were friends at the beginning of the year, but then something shifted and I was no longer included in the group. He doesn’t speak to me now; though we never fought, our friendship is finished. He ignores me, so I do so in turn. I watch, fascinated. I forgot he doesn’t sleep well either. He’s from a family farm like me, yet he’s tall and male so he can walk whenever and wherever he pleases.

I study his features in the limited light, the draw of his lips in a natural line. No smile lighting up his features or exposing his crooked dimple. His hair is shorter than the last time we talked, a trendier style than the scruffy flop he had at the start of the year. I silently prefer the mess of curls over his new, fashionable cut. His shoulders are slightly hunched, he’s looking down, then he suddenly, casually looks up. Like it’s normal, routine, to glance up at the perfect angle to see my room, and me, perched at the window watching him.

He wasn’t expecting that though, his stride cuts in half, and he falters. His expression shifts, jaw drops slightly. Guilt flushes through my system at being spotted. It’s quite personal watching someone when they believe they’re alone. We stare in silence for a few long moments.

“You wandering?” I call down softly. He nods, his haircut staying prim and proper with the sharp jerk of his head. It would have flopped goofily before.

“It’s a full moon.” I glance up then back down at him quickly. “Mind if I join? I don’t wanna be kidnapped.” I pause before adding, “I don’t want to talk.” He nods again, looking bleached out under the unnatural light. I pull on my battered shoes and snatch a jacket off the floor. Is this a good idea? I push the thought away.

Without planning it, we walk across campus and end up at his truck. We climb in and he drives quietly, calmly as always. I know where we are going before he turns left at the gates. The river churns, spitting white specks that light up under the full moon. The water is fast moving and probably frigid. We watch it silently in a brooding truce.

I climb out and slam the door, cracking the shifty silence. I kick off my shoes and drop my jacket on the smooth stones. Jordan twists in his seat to watch me, surprise flicking across his features. I smirk and reach down to pull off my top. He’s looking away when I pull it over my head. Such a gentleman. I roll my eyes and drop my sweatpants on the ground. Cool air brushes my bare skin. I leave my undies and bra on and walk to the river’s edge. It’s not that wide, or deep until about two meters in, then it drops down. We used to come here, before autumn started, when we were still talking. It’s different now, without the blur of alcohol or the glossy yellow firelight and hazy warmth.

I edge closer to the inky blackness of the water. I’m going to regret this, I can already feel it. I wade in, the cool water stealing my body heat. It envelopes me in a breath-catching clutch, like ice forming in my lungs as I breathe. I gasp, kicking against the current. My skin glows under the moonlight, almost snow white. Pinprick white bubbles cling to my skin as I roll under the surface. I emerge, my hair feeling like a heavy, icy waterfall as it streams down my back. I manage to stand on slimy stones and look to the shore.

Jordan stands in the shallows, his bare chest glowing white in the moonlight. I watch in fascination as he wades into the dark, turning water. His hair is still styled in his new look, a modern cut with gel keeping his loose curls at bay. His jeans lie discarded on the bank, a pool of dark material. Even those are new – tight and rip-free.

He lifts his arms and dives into the dip, where the stones drop off. The only spot in this part of the river where the depth is over his head. His usual North Island tan, highlighted by his mixed heritage, is completely bleached out in our winter, his skin almost emulating a pale light as he emerges and floats briefly on the pitch blackness.

White frothy bubbles highlight the currents and eddy around me as I make my way out of the cold clutch of the river. Goosebumps prick up on my skin instantly as I stand on the pale stones, dripping. I watch as he sucks in a whooping breath before diving under again, his pale hands scrubbing at his hair.

The gel is gone when he emerges, his hair now a dripping wet mess sticking up at odd angles. He coughs, spluttering on the icy water, and climbs out, shivering in the cold. He’s not muscular like normal Lincoln farmers or the townie gym junkies. He’s from the hills, with long legs and a staggering height of six foot five. Lean cords of muscle and a narrow chest and waist. He’s strong though, fit and tough, outpacing me easily when tramping, which I found out the hard way.

We were never a good match, not as friends or anything else, though I was fooled for a while. He has a traditional arrogance that comes from his fevered bloodline, matching the dark curl of flopping hair and strong cheekbones. My short height barely reaches his chest, my muscles built thick and tight on a stocky frame from the swamplands. We may both be farmers, but we don’t have much else in common. All we have is obnoxious pride and strong family names, that ended up clashing us rather than bonding. I sigh, wondering why I’m near him again.

He snatches his shirt off the tailgate of his ute, drying himself with it quickly before throwing it at me. I catch by reflex and use it to wipe off the beads of water on my skin.

Jordan climbs onto the back of the truck gracefully, opening the chained box drilled into the deck. He hunts around before handing me an old Swandri jersey and grabbing another stained woolen one for himself. I blink in surprise and drag on the worn red material; it hangs almost to my knees and smells like the earth and gun powder mixed with faded cologne. I grab my sweatpants, pulling them on with trembling fingers.

We climb back into his truck, him quickly turning the key and blasting the heaters. He breaks the silence first, glancing at me with a wry grin.

“That was a terrible idea.”

Laughter erupts from my chest, warming me up from my toes as Jordan grins and puts the truck into gear. His old smile twists his lips crookedly and exposes a dimple in his left cheek.

I briefly wonder if he meant us not talking, before deciding I really don’t care. Perhaps a bit of cold water to the head worked a trick.