The radio played a soft ukulele tune in the background, shadowed by carefully placed piano chords. We lay atop my bed together, looking at the ceiling that glittered with fake, painted stars. One of my arms was on my chest, one of his was on the cover, and we each held the other’s hand. The pastel aqua and melon theme that was patterned in the bedroom added another feeling of peace. The radio crackled, the song ended, and it began to play a slightly calmer, aesthetic song with electronic beats. He shifted his position on the bed, and so did I, following his lead, so we both sat with our backs to the walls, sitting on top of the blanket. Our love was a quiet, delicate thing. It involved aimlessly lying on beds while playing warming music and looking up to our imaginary sky. We always painted the ceiling, so one time the sky could be dark and littered with small glow-in-the-dark stars, and other times it could be mixes of reds and yellows, imitating a sunset. But all that really mattered was that the two of us were there, together.