Just my imagination?

"You should write about us," he said as they climbed onto the rooftop stargazing deck of a charming home in the foothills and sat together.

"Oh, I've written about you," she confessed, staring into the milky way, not sure if he had heard her. Not even sure if he had ever read her blog. Not even sure if he would have recognized himself in it, anyway, since she wrote so covertly (or did she?) so as to not hurt any tender hearts. She wanted to list off the post titles to see if he recognized any of them.

He was certainly the muse behind many posts, and there could have been so many more. It was hard for her to not be so revealing when it came to recounting instances with him, that unless it was many contexts removed, she simply couldn't blog about it.

On the other hand, it was such a great story - at least in her head, as she hung onto every felt nuance that said "wow, this is it schweetie. Run with it" -- that it was difficult not to write it. But the governor on her imagination is what stopped her all along from sharing such sweet tales.

How revealing could she be? Did he already know? He must know...

The cloak of the night air settled on her as stars streamed across the heavens.