I Do Love The Phrase Executive Dysfunction Bc The Image It Conjures Is Of A Bunch Of People Wearing Business

Quick reminder that it's always morally correct to punch nazis.

Are you a philosophy major, or does Tumblr just really know your target audience?

I never went to college.

This is how I see Caleb

the Grinch and Shrek bonding over their mutual appreciation for onions and being green

(7) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Your time with the aunt-nephew duo, despite all their peculiarities you chalk up to rich people stuff, is going so well until it gets to the small talk part. You never thought it'd come to almost beating the living daylights out of your savior, but here you two are. Fuck that guy.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 9K | read on ao3

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note: howl pendragon-coded rafayel, yayyyy! what's that? "what's with the summary" you say" well... THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTINGGGGGGGG (rafayel didnt intend that to be the outcome at all. when ur so emotionally intelligent and a lil bit manipulative and want to help her unwind but it backfires on you bc your pookie doesnt play like that. ur kinda proud but again. that wasnt the intended outcome)

“Hello.”

Just hearing Mom say that with a voice so thin and tired that some of it doesn’t get picked up through the phone is enough for your heart to shrink in place like a child who’s aware of an incoming scolding would.

“Mom,” you gasp. You’re standing barefoot on the cool white tiles, their chill bleeding up through your soles. The clothes clinging to your body are too big, borrowed, the soft collar of someone else’s sweater sagging against your neck. “Mom, it’s me — it’s me.”

There’s a sound — a breath being sucked in too fast, and then her voice rises, making the speaker pop and crackle against your ear: “Oh my God. Oh my God!—”

“Is the ferry okay?” The phone cord coils loosely at your side, warm from the sun that slants through an arched window and makes the gold fixtures on the table gleam. You keep winding it around your fingers without thinking, make it tight enough to cut blood circulation, letting it bite into your skin before unwinding it again. Then again.

Please tell me it didn’t sink, please.

The plastic sheath creaks faintly with each nervous pull, a rhythmic distraction just steady enough to stop you from breaking open. “The ferry — is the ferry alright? Did it — did it make it back?! The fishermen — I thought they were — I tried to get them before the they hit the rocks but — fuck, I — I don’t know if it made it—”

“Who is that?” another voice shouts suddenly from the receiver, rapidly accelarating in proximity and booming with rage and fear. You can hear the sound of Mom’s phone being snatched. “Who is that?! Give me the — Is that you?!”

“Dad,” you choke, fighting the tremble in your bottom lip.

This is his breadwinner. Your entire family’s livelihood. The fact that a possible sinking after you were thrown overboard hadn’t occured to you until you were underneath a warm shower and letting your thoughts flow with the water is worse to you than being the reason why the ferry was lost. You truly don’t know what to say.

“Dad I — I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to — I thought I could get them back in, the boat was listing, the rocks were farther so I thought it would be fine, and then the wave — I don’t even know if the ferry’s — oh god, the ferry—”

Mom interrupts your babbling. “Shhhh, shhh, the ferry’s fine, baby, it’s fine, those people drove it back here—”

Your elbows come down on the luxurious table and you sink down on your forearms from relief, rubbing your face with your free hand. The position is a bit awkward because you have to hold the receiver of this old rotary phone to your ear, but you couldn’t care less.

“Where the hell are you?” Dad spits.

Mom cuts in again, her voice warbling with restrained sobs: “We thought you were gone. The coast guard said the water was too cold — and after that kind of storm your chances weren’t… that it was too late to keep searching. But we didn’t stop. We didn’t stop, do you hear me?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. They were drifting and I thought if I could just — if I could just get there in time. I didn’t — I thought I could help. I really thought I could do something right for once and instead I nearly—”

Ruined everything.

You can hear the ocean just beyond the glass in the silence that follows.

“Where are you now? Where have you washed up? I don’t recognize the number, who are you with?” he says, more insistent now. “We looked everywhere in the surrounding islands.”

“Someone pulled me out — he said this is his aunt’s place — Orphias she said, I think? The owner’s name is Talia.”

Your father swears under his breath, sharp and furious. “Private island section? That’s miles off route and from the Teeth! How—”

“I don’t know! I can’t make sense of it as well, but I didn’t pry. Beggars can’t be choosers.” When you receive no answer, you bite down on your lower lip. “Dad?”

“You stay put, we’re on our way now.” You nod even though they can’t see it. The hand not holding the phone presses to your chest, as if that might calm the erratic thump beneath. “Stay on your toes, alright? I don’t like this. The storm couldn’t have taken you that far — who did you say it was that saved you?”

“This guy — Rafayel. The nephew. He brought me here from what he told me.” You hear an intake of a big breath. “Don’t ask. I don’t know. He was—”

You stop yourself. If you talk anything related to Rafayel, Dad would freak the fuck out. A naked man on the beach so far away from the ground zero of your fall who you had to piggyback to his aunt’s house? Nothing you could say would be able to salvage any part of that sentence.

“Okay,” he says. An engine starts in the background. “Okay. How are you doing? Are you hurt at all?”

“Took you long enough to ask,” Mom nags in the distance.

“I’m okay now, I think — I’m dry, she gave me clothes — I had a hot shower…”

Dad starts ranting to himself under his breath in the unique way that he does that’s reminiscent of a sped-up tape put in another room you hear the muffled echo of. “Jesus Christ. You scared the life out of us. Hours. Gone for hours. You don’t just venture out during a fucking storm and— ”

And of course it’s Mom who stops it. “—Don’t, not now. We’ll talk about it when we see her.”

That’s how you know you’re in for a lecture. You deserve it, though. The ferry’s safety more than makes up for it.

“Are the fishermen okay?” you say, a bit ashamed to remember to ask about them this late into the conversation, but it’s fine you think — shame is a familiar companion nowadays, what’s more for the late night conversations you have with her?

“Yeah, they made it. One of ’em got a concussion, another one fractured his arm. That storm shook the poor fellas like a rattle.”

And the third one brought you here.

Yeah, that checks out.

It’s the kind of confirmation you needed. And your family, of course. An identity verification of some sorts and a guarantee that nothing bad would happen to you. Though the second part of that sentence, you feel guilty just thinking about after getting taken care of by a host like Talia who took in a stranger into her home. A wet dog, in a sense.

You move to lean against the wall next to the telephone, tilting your head back to rest on the smooth, cool surface of the wallpaper. There is a slight ache in your shoulders from the strain of the stress (and also the almost-drowning, but mostly the stress of losing the ferry), but the exhaustion is a familiar one, the kind that comes from a day spent pushing against the world, one that you welcome feeling, now that you know you haven't fucked up that colossaly. Relief, in other words, is the best drug.

"Can you get this Talia on the phone?" Mom asks. "We need the island code to find the coordinates, baby."

"You guys don't know about any Orphias?"

Dad grumbles. "You expect someone to know every single grocery store in the city?"

"Well. If it's a luxury store and the person in question is a store connoisseur—"

"Okay, alright, smartass. If you can talk back like that, I guess you're fine."

"Talia, please?" Mom reminds you. She sounds lighter, though, after hearing the brief bickering.

“I sure hope you haven’t gotten yourself into some weird island cult.”

As if to answer her question, light footsteps fade into your awareness from the outside and you turn your head to the direction of the source just as a gentle knock on the door resonates. It’s Talia hovering in the entryway, the light from the spacious hall casting a soft glow outlines her figure in the warm, golden haze of the afternoon, somehow made brighter by the smile on her face.

"Just wanted to say I prepared some snacks for you, in case you were hungry," she offers, keeping her voice down in a whisper to not interrupt yor call. She seems to hesitate, then adds, "And also... if you're not, that's all right too. You can take your time. There's no rush."

You can't help the smile that crosses your face, grateful and touched. "Thanks. Actually, could you..." You gesture with the old corded phone, once again mentally shrunk into a kid half her height when you say, "My parents would like to speak to you. Just to give their thanks. And directions. To fetch me. If that's alright?"

"Of course," she replies, fully entering the room and stepping forward to take the receiver from your hand. "I understand, they must've been worried sick. Don't worry, I'll handle it. You go to the kitchen, it's just on the left from the hall. Help yourself to whatever you'd like. I'll be right there in a moment."

Kindness is inherently woven into her attitude in the same way the scent of the sea lingers in the fabric of the sweater she's given you, reinforcing the decision of not telling the details of your arrival to your parents. You’d hate to put a woman like this in a bad position.

You murmur a quiet, "Okay, thank you," and leave the room, the hushed conversation of numbers and coordinates becoming background noise as you make your way to the kitchen from where the inviting aromas of baked treats are emitting from. It’s the flute to your snake.

The door to the kitchen creaks open under your hand, hinges sighing into a stillness too perfect to last, and immediately you’re greeted by a chaotic shock of what you first think is a purple Cookie Monster perched on the marble countertop. You stand frozen for a while, blinking rapidly to understand just what you're looking at. 

Rafayel is halfway to toppling a tall rectangular tin off the highest shelf, arm stretched, the draped sleeve of the damn curtain he has on brushing precariously close to the burner on the gas stove, which is clicking softly beside him, the faint heat of a forgotten flame warming the copper kettle that rattles lazily against its cradle. He’s framed by the cabinetry that gleams beneath glass-paned arches — crystal knobs and shell-tiled backsplash gleaming in the slanted afternoon light, inside them are shelves forming a sort of shrine: delicate teacups, polished silver tins, bundles of dried herbs bound with gold thread, and much more you can’t quite identify from your angle.

One leg is tucked under him like a smug little prince, the other dangles, toes tapping against the edge of an opened carved oak cabinet, and the sound of clinking make you notice the anklets he has on. It's feline, the way he's trying to balance. Either get on the counter with both knees, or don't. What is he thinking?

"You're going to break the counter or the cabinet standing like that," you say flatly.

He turns his head half-way to give you a view of his profile, dusky violet hair tucked behind one ear, a long, dangly purple gem earring catching the light, swaying with the movement. It's weirdly painting-esque, especially with the ensemble he has on, which fits his overall vibe, and you really shouldn't be surprised it does. Because of course the butt-naked meet-cute conversational-hazard man dresses like a Studio Ghibli fever dream styled by a Milan Fashion Week intern on mushrooms. 

“Are you calling me fat?” He frowns with a displeased pinch between his eyebrows. “I’ll have you know I’m streamlined for agility.”

Your gaze drops to the sash tied too elaborately around his waist holding the curtain in place, and the peach-colored gems and tassels at the ends of them hanging dangerously close to the open flame, and point to it with a hand. "Are you fireproof as well?"

He scoots away from the stovetop, but doesn’t give up on his destination — one particular tin. “Ah.”

"Get down before you light yourself on fire."

He sighs and pouts at that, but slides off the counter nevertheless, with a surprising grace that doesn’t quite match the amount of fabric he has on, his bare feet slapping softly against the cool marble tiles inlaid with spiraling shell patterns.

"Fine. But only because you asked nicely," he says, brushing invisible crumbs from his curtain. "You didn’t. But I imagined you might’ve if I waited long enough."

He twirls once, with the idle flourish of a flower being spun between someone's fingers, the heavy velvet draped around him swishing in soft, watery folds. It's almost hypnotic. You want to run your hands through the fabric to see if it's as soft as it looks. 

"So? Thoughts?"

You identify the curtain as a wisteria purple robe. It has beautiful peach-colored patterns that shine with his every move. Underneath, a waistcoat that's in the same peach-tone hugs his frame with a couple misbuttons — embroidered with faint glints of coral gold that shimmer when he moves. A silk shirt spills open beneath it, loose-laced and collarless, you can see from the yawning sleeves of the robe that its cuffs are unbuttoned and trailing down his wrists. The ensemble being held around his waist by the sash aside — which you think is a tassled curtain tie back — his base clothes are white, the shirt and the slacks.

You blink at him. At least he knows how to color code, you'll give him that. 

"You're giving sentient curtain from Beauty and the Beast."

"Thank you," he beams. “I knew you would appreciate my vision. See these embroideries? They mixed apricot yellow and cerise to—”

"That wasn’t—"

"It was. Don’t backpedal now." He’s disinterested in furthering that conversation, attention distracted with the tin he’s fiddling with. He sniffs its contents with a frown. "Huh. Smelled better from the high shelf.”

You subtly throw your head back and close your eyes, exhaling, then, drift toward one of the tall stools tucked under the curved lip of the kitchen island and hop on one of the middle ones. You tune Rafayel out as you gape at the feast right in front of you. Snacks? These are snacks?

God, rich people.

Folded grape leaves stuffed with lemony rice, thin slices of cured meat, wedges of blue and brie and something veined with wine, jewel-toned berries, pistachios still in shell, and golden crackers fanned into spirals, pastries and oh gosh — meticulously arranged as though she was expecting guests. This was the kind of thing that gets instagrammed, not eaten.

"—altitude nostalgia. Did you know humans smell differently at different elevations?"

But your stomach has been grumpily bubbling under its breath for a while now, and this is food, and the combination of those two things makes you an uncaring, shameless heathen. Your mouth is watering. Who even cares that one plate is probably worth more than you are. Fuck it. In a single motion, your elbow is on the table and you're leaning over the plates, already grabbing a handful of the closest pastry and taking a huge bite.

It's flaky and buttery and filled with cheese and walnuts, and the crust practically melts on your tongue. You have to fight the urge to moan in delight, and subsequently come to realize the sound of your chewing is too loud. Rafayel's talking has ceased.

A featherlight touch on the wrist that might otherwise have you suspect you brushed against fleeting clothing hanging in your closet snaps you from your blissful, mindless gorging trance, and you turn to find Rafayel staring at you. His face is blank, and there's a slight tilt to his eyebrows, gaze flitting between your eyes and puckered lips, his hand on your wrist to stop the pastry from meeting its tragic end between your teeth.

"What?" you ask, muffled and full-mouthed, lips sticky, and cheeks bulging with the remains of the pastry. You try not to feel self-conscious about the crumbs on the sides of your mouth. Instead, you raise an eyebrow. "Don't judge. I'm a growing woman."

"Growing into what? A pearl? Slow down. Chew."

"You're not my dad, what's it to you?"

"I just don't want you to choke when I just saved you from drowning, you know. But you've got some..."

"Got some...?"

He points to his own cheek and mouth area, mimicking the mess you have on your person. Then, without warning or hearing what you might say in return, he reaches out and wipes away a fleck of crust on the corner of your lips. It might be an intrusive or an impulsive thought he gave into, you don’t know, but your face warms at the proximity regardless of the context or the reason behind it, the sudden familiarity of his gesture, and the way his thumb lingers, brushing lightly across the swell of your bottom lip as if to savor the texture. You're suddenly acutely aware of the intimacy of the act and the fact that you met this man only hours ago.

What is this? Is he just very touchy?

The copper begins to hum, steam from it rising in polished spirals, catching the light through a stained-glass transom high above the doorway.

You jerk back, wiping the rest of the mess with the back of your hand, and avoid the view of his hand staying frozen in the air, hovering in the spot where your face was, and the perplexed look on his face. "I got it."

His fingers curl inward as he retracts his hand, sliding it to his side. He doesn't respond, simply watches you in silence, his eyebrows furrowing for a brief moment as he rubs his thumb and forefinger together before smoothing out again, and you wonder if maybe you should've said thank you, after all. But the moment has passed, and the thought of apologizing now seems awkward, so you do the next best thing, which is to change the subject.

"What's that for?"

“This,” he announces, tilting the tin so the embossed label is emphasized with the light falling on it — a stylized silver fish leaping over a crescent moon — “is a Moonpetal brew. Aunt Talia only brings it out for very special occasions."

You eye the tin, then him. "Moonpetal? Sounds like something out of a fairy tale."

Or out of a very expensive, fancy health food store, the kind that promised enlightenment in a biodegradable pouch.

"Everything is a fairy tale if you know what perspective to look at," he says, his voice regaining some of its melodic lilt. He pops the lid with a soft thwack and a fragrant cloud billow out – notes of jasmine, something salty-sweet sea-salt caramel, and an underlying freshness that reminded you of rain on warm stones. It's surprisingly lovely.

He dips two fingers into the tin, his rings clinking faintly against the metal, and pulls out a pinch of what looks to be dried, silvery-white petals mixed with tiny, dark, almost iridescent leaves. He brings them close to his nose, inhaling deeply, eyes fluttering shut for a dramatic moment that makes his long lashes brush his cheek. "I missed this."

"Haven't been around lately, then?"

"You could say that," he answers, the way he dips his head to stare at the tea makes the purple waves of his hair shift like disturbed water. There's a particular undercurrent to his smile that you could only describe as something distorted underneath the surface of the sea.

Talia re-enters the kitchen then, catching you off-guard. You were too engrossed in the exchange to notice her arrival, but the sound of her humming catches both of your attentions. Her shawl is gone, lilac skirt swishing around her ankles and cream-colored blouse, which she's rolled the sleeves of to her elbows, is buttoned to her throat. The sun from the windows puts its spotlight on her immediately, making the shells on her earrings shimmer, the silver and opals winking in the light, and you notice that her nails are painted a pale purple.

"Sorry about that," she says. "It took longer than e — good gods, Rafayel."

Rafayel turns to her and spins, letting the robe flare, and strikes a pose. It's such a childish move that it takes you aback. "How did I do?"

"I remember that robe," Talia murmurs. She's smiling, though, even as her hand goes to her heart, clutching at the fabric of her shirt. "You used to run around with it all the time. You'd sneak in my room and steal it to play superheroes." Her eyelashes are damp, and the lines at the corners of her mouth are deepening in a way that suggests laughter. "I should've known you'd find it. You never could keep away from that thing."

You feel compelled to look away from the moment, and stuff a cube of cheese in your mouth, focusing your attention on the smooth marble counter, veined like seafoam. Somewhere above, a crystal suncatcher swings lazily from a brass hook, scattering color across the whitewashed archways.

"Hard to part with," he agrees. He runs his fingers through the folds of the sleeve, tracing the embroidery, his smile morphing into a distant, nostalgic shape. "This is a good look, right?"

"It is, you look just like a prince," Talia replies, her words holding an otherwise undetectable ‘humoring him’ element that comes off as genuine — and you have no doubt that she is being genuine, it’s obvious from her face that Rafayel is quite endearing to her.

Her attention turns to the kettle on the stove when it starts to whistle, and a flicker of surprise crosses her features. "Oh, were you going to make tea, dear?"

"Uh-huh." Rafayel glances at her and nods. "Moonpetal, to soothe her nerves."

“Good thinking, I was going to get that out for you anyway,” She steps closer, peering at the tin, her eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. "But didn't I put that on the highest shelf?"

"I came just in time to witness his mountain climbing expedition," you insert yourself into the conversation. With a smirk, you point to the open cabinets. "He's lucky the entire kitchen didn't come crashing down on him."

Talia gives him a disapproving frown, but her vast sunrays pf fondness breaks through the unenthusiastic storm clouds. She reaches out to gently adjust the collar of his robe. “Well, since you’ve already retrieved it for me… Come, let’s make it properly together.”

Talia brushes past him to retrieve ceramic cups painted with mother-of-pearl scales. Her fingers linger on his shoulder, a fleeting touch that seems to weigh more than it should.

You feel horrible for interrupting, but it’s worse to just sit there and be served. “Is there anything I can—”

Both aunt and nephew shut down the idea at the same time and their voices blend in different octaves of refusals, making you unable to differentiate who said what. So you sit back and make youself invisible for the time being, watching as Talia moves to the counter beside the stove, the colorful, slightly oversized duckling that is Rafayel trailing after her.

Both of them look out of this world. Or rather, the world of ordinary people you live in. It’s a weird feeling how you’ve intruded in this world, sitting on the kitchen island as they make tea together may just be the equivalent of the economy and business classes coming closest together when they’re separated by a curtain.

“Show me how you remember we steep it.”

Rafayel is an artist contemplating which color he should start out with as his hands hover over the teapot, and you nibble a pistachio shell into splinters as a thought crosses over your mind. They don’t seem too familiar with each other for some reason.

Well, it’s not your business.

The Moonpetal tea, surprise surprise, is what one would think liquid moonlight would taste on the tongue — cool and fresh and effervescent on your tongue, with a lingering salt-kissed sweetness that makes your shoulders relax against the wrought-iron chair. You’d helped Talia arrange everything on the patio overlooking the valley, where seabirds wheel in arcs below like scraps of paper caught in a draft, and was engaging in small talk here and there when she leaned forward, sunlight catching the opals at her throat.

“Your parents mentioned you’ve been managing their ferry? That’s wonderful! Such an important role,” she says, refilling your cup which has a thin gold band on the rim, delicate and precise. (Everything in this house is.) The porcelain clinks softly. “You must feel so connected to the sea.”

Your fingers spasm around the saucer, droplets of tea sloshing dangerously. Of course the conversation has stirred this way. You were hoping for your parents would arrive before that and you wouldn’t have to go through the ‘So, what do you do?’ question. The idea of discussing the life you're already averse to talking about with a rich woman, no less, is more daunting than the cult thing.

And worst of all, it's hopeless already, right off the bat. She's trying to be poetic about it, but there's nothing romantic about being the wheel of the car that transports people on a day-to-day basis. You aren't sure sure if you're connected to the sea. If anything, you're connected to the people who use the sea to connect. A bridge of sorts.

“Um, well. Yes. For a long time, actually.” A pause. The breeze picks up, ruffling the wisteria hanging from a lattice overhead. “I, uh, worked on the same ferry since I was fifteen or sixteen. I left a few years ago, but...”

“I assume it was for school," she prompts, her smile gentle, encouraging, but you feel anything but pacified. Your stomach plummets darkly at the mention of school, at the memories of sitting on a bench in a crowded campus and knowing you were nothing. Knowing you were less than the people around you, and the sinking realization that all of it had been for nothing because you were crawling back home at the end of the day, the world still as large and uncaring as ever, leaving you behind to rot in the past. Just another faceless, nameless drop in the ocean.

“Yes,” you say, the word brittle. “School.”

There's a silence, filled by the low hush of the wind.

You can't bear it. Not to make it awkward, you stumble over your words with the grace of a newborn calf trying to ice skate. "I — I got my degree and everything, it's just that the, um. Job hunt wasn't successful. So." You try to force a laugh, but the sound sticks in your throat.

Talia hums thoughtfully. "So many young people are struggling with the same problem these days. It's hard to find steady work." Her fingers tap the table, a gentle, contemplative rhythm. "What a blessing it is for you to become the captain of the family business!"

Yeah, lucky me.

What a blessing, to be a failure in the outside world and have to return to the safe haven of the familiar. To know that the only place that values you is the one you feel so humiliated to feel such relief in stepping foot on again. And to feel that way, to feel embarrassed, ashamed of that sense of security and joys you've come to rediscover connecting with people and taking control of the ferry that was a ball and chain to you when you were younger; to feel unworthy, and small, and like a little girl again, a child in oversized clothes playing dress-up in adulthood. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

You bite your lip. Hard. Enough to draw blood and distract yourself from the shame that burns on your cheeks. Don't cry, don't cry, please don't fucking cry in front of a literal stranger. Your knuckles turn white from gripping the handle of the teacup.

"Not captain," you correct, attempting a weak smile, though the corners of your lips feel weighed down, refusing to rise properly, staring at the dregs of tea leaves swirling into shapes that look suspiciously similar to sinking ships.. "My dad is the captain. I'm just helping out."

"Don't be modest! Captain-in-training, then," Talia insists, her own smile never faltering. "That's a huge responsibility. One that takes dedication, and skill, and commitment. It's not something that everyone can manage." She lifts her teacup in a subtle toast. "And from what I hear from my nephew, you're quite the hero. Without you, who knows what those fishermen's fate could've been—"

The world narrows to static, blurring underwater as memories surge — your mother’s disappointed sigh when you moved back home, classmates’ LinkedIn posts gleaming like knives (Curatorial Assistant @ Metropolitan Museum!), the ferry’s deck tilting beneath your boots as waves swallowed the bow…

“—really admire that kind of dedication,” Talia was saying when you tune back in. "But what did you study, if you don't mind me asking?"

Your lungs refuse to inflate properly, and you get in a careful cough in to get rid of that feeling. It doesn’t work.

Rafayel’s chair screeches suddenly as he stands, his robe billowing like a storm cloud. It startles you.

He's been so silent this whole time that you forgot he was there, curled up in his chair and observing the two of you speak, his head tilted in a way a cat’s would while watching a bird from a window. Now, his sudden motion makes the wisteria above shudder, and the wind picks up, sending the purple hair tumbling across his shoulders in waves of silk, his earring swaying.

"I'm bored," he says, the words clipped. He gives his aunt a pointed glance. "Are we done here?"

Talia's brows furrow. "Don't be rude. We have a guest, Rafayel." Her chiding is gentle, but firm. There's a certain authority to her that reminds you of how a parent would scold their child.

"Well, she clearly is. Look at her," he gestures toward you with a flourish of his sleeve, and for a second, his smile is a slash of lightning across his face. “Soooooo bored. All that landlubber talk is making her wilt. Glub glub glub, job job job. That's how it sounds. I can't stand to watch anymore."

Your mouth drops open. Landlubber?

But before you can protest, he's rounding the table, the hem of his robe dragging over the stone tiles, his bare feet making no noise. When he reaches you, he extends a hand, the gesture grand and sweeping. A prince from a fairy tale. The beads and thin chains of the bracelets you hadn’t noticed because of the concealing layers of fabric clink and shingle with the motion.

"Come," he says. "I want to show you something."

You stare at his offered palm, at the delicate bones and tendons that shift beneath the skin, the fine tracery of veins that run up the inside of his wrist.

"Umm," you trail off, wary of his motives and stealing a glance to a suspiciously calm-looking Talia. There's no trace from her earlier admonishing, it's all soft interest and a certain understanding now you aren't privy to. You wonder what that means. "It's okay, I'm not—"

"Yes, you are, you hate these talks," he cuts you off, and his hand stays suspended in mid-air, waiting. Patient, yet insistent. His fingers twitch. The sea breeze plays with the ends of his hair. Then, softer, gentler: "Indulge me."

Rafayel brings you to a damn lagoon, of all things.

Of course there's a secluded lagoon tucked away right in the middle of the island. Of course this happens to be an atoll.

As a kid, you'd spend hours scouring the coastline, looking for hidden places to be candidates for your secret base away from your siblings. It was thrilling, discovering a place that was yours and yours alone, untouched and untainted. Raf's cove and grotto became that for you, in a way, a private oasis that's yours to explore and enjoy. Except that it wasn't just a simple nook in a rock, rather, it was a legitimate, actual, real-life hidden paradise.

But this is something else. This is... a level of fantasy you're unfamiliar with. A shock and flash of endless blue, opening your eyes to sunlight after staying in the dark for a long time.

Everywhere is a kaleidoscope of hues, shades, and tints — a thousand variations of green and blue that shift and blend and shimmer in the afternoon light, creating a dazzling display cupped in the bowl of sugar-white sandbars, cradled within the surrounding forest that forms a ring around it. The water is crystal clear and pristine, reflecting the sky and the surrounding landscape with mirror-like perfection.

As you step closer, the sand squishes underfoot, cool and silky against your toes, and the sound of the lapping waves is a soothing backdrop to the rustling leaves and chirping birds. You swear you can see parrotfish nibbling at coral pillars and striped damselfish darting through shafts of sunlight and the shadows of large schools.

Yeah, you wouldn't take one step outside if this was where you lived.

You can't help the wonder from spilling forth, hundred percent sure that your eyes must be sparkling. "Wow..."

"Admit it," Rafayel says, already knee-deep in the shallows, and you sputter at the sight of the hem of his robe floating on the surface, the luxurious velvet a violet stain on the waters that's drifting and rippling gently. Not only is he ruining the fabric by not taking it off, but his pants are also intact. Can velvet even go in the washing machine? What is his pants made out of? How much would the dry cleaning bill would be? Oh god. Fucking rich people. "This beats talking about spreadsheets."

"We weren't even talking about spre—"

You're interrupted by something flying at your face, a pearly moon snail shell that thumps harmlessly against your collarbone before it ricochets off you and plops into the water with a plink.

“Catch!” He lobs another — a spotted cowrie this time — and instinct makes you lunge sideways like a goalkeeper avoiding a penalty shot. The shell sails past into a tide pool where three startled hermit crabs abandon their lunch.

“Are you five?” You swat at the next projectile, a spiraled whelk that left sand grit in your palm.

His grin sparkles with mischief as he flicks his impossibly long hair back, the wavy strands sweeping behind him, a silken curtain unfurling in a gentle breeze, and you ignore the Mom-like urge to tell him to tie his hair up. “You’re smiling.”

You weren’t — until he says it, and then you're fighting a traitorous twitch of lips as he bends to pluck something from the seabed, and there the lower half of his hair goes, getting wet. The robe is halfway ruined at this point.

Water sluices off his arms as he presents his prize, a conch shell blushed pink as dawn clouds, still glistening with seawater.

You open your hands to the sides, shaking your shoulders once. "What are we doing?"

He's not looking at you, instead, he's holding the conch between his palms, his long, slender fingers curving around its elegant curves. "You'd rather stay and talk more with Talia about what your shame thinks you're failing at?"

Your smile drops. The hot flashes are immediate. "Excuse me?"

"You're excused," is the casual response. An infuriating smile curls across his face as his thumb traces the delicate contours of the conch, lingering on a particularly rough patch.

"Listen here," you snap, stomping up to him, and the splash is louder than intended. "I don't know where you got that from, you don't know what you're talking about—"

"Don't I?" Rafayel interjects with a knowing look.

He leans in, his lavender scent wafting over you, a hint of saltwater and a curious muskiness that reminds you of the depths of the ocean.

"You think these hands," he turns your palm upward, tracing saltwater calluses you'd tried scrubbing away with pumice stones, "are any less worthy than ones clutching a piece of paper from some ivory tower and treat it as a golden ticket to life?" His touch lingers over a fresh rope burn near your thumb webbing, and the heat of his skin seeps into yours. "How are you any less of a person? Is the fisherman's soul any less noble than that of the scholar's, or the artist's?"

You're speechless for a moment, staring at his hand cradling yours, the smoothness of his unblemished, ring-clad fingers a striking counterpoint to the weather-worn texture of yours. You try to pull your hand away but he doesn't relent, staring right into your soul with those horizon eyes of his.

“Of course not. That’s not — that’s not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it?”

His habit of answering with more questions is starting to grate on your nerves. You catch a brief flash of hurt in his quick blinks when you yank your hand away, feeling the sharp edge of his rings scrape against your skin. “What do you know about any of this? You’re just a wealthy kid who can afford to drag velvet through saltwater and mud like it’s nothing and — and you go around wearing a fur with nothing underneath, what... Spare me the lecture on shame or the dignity of hard work, you’re the last person who should be talking to me about it.”

He laughs in your face. He. Laughs. In. Your. Face.

And not a polite, demure chuckle either, no, the man throws his head back and cackles like a witch on a broomstick. Like you’ve just said the funniest thing in the world. Your blood boils. You're ready to grab the conch and bash his pretty face in, or at least shove his smug ass to dunk his head in the water, anything to get that mocking look out of his features. How dare he, to belittle you like that, to act like the entire conversation is a big joke. To mock your struggles and experiences and make them seem so trivial, when it's something that's been plaguing you since forever. Just because he's a trust fund brat doesn't give him the right to ridicule you—

"Yeah, okay. Alright. I get it." His laughter dies down with a loud exhale that has weight behind it, a distant look on his face that goes from somber to a prickly smile that raises the little hairs on the back of your neck. "I don't think it's me who you're angry at. I'm not the one calling my work, and the work of my family, worthless. Inferior. Isn't that right?"

The gentle approach suddenly turning into an unabashedly exposing angle hit you in the sternum, knocking the wind out of you, your chest starts to rise and fall in a panicked rhythm, hands curling into fists at your sides. "I'm not fucking doing this," you murmur, turning on your heels to march the other way.

"Where are you going?" Rafayel calls after you, infuriatingly light and playful in a way that gives away its purpose.

You’re not going to take this lying down.

"Don't talk to me," you throw back without looking.

"Why are you so determined to be miserable?”

You freeze mid-step, heart racing as you pivot on your heel. Your gaze locks onto him, eyes wide with disbelief, and your lips part in a silent gasp, any clever retort you could come up with having slipped away just when you needed them most. "What did you just say to me?"

He is a demon from the depths of hell, cloaked in a guise so enchanting it could make angels weep, cradling the conch shell still, turning it over as though contemplating an orb of secrets. The smile playing on his lips curls like a wicked crescent moon, glinting with trouble and utterly devoid of remorse, giving you the dread that he’s privy to every shadowy thought that dances through your mind.

"You don’t get to live what you meticulously planned in your little dream journal when you were sixteen, isn’t that what this is? End of the world as you know it?"

That is the final straw.

You realize now that you’re no more than an insect pinned under glass, a specimen for his twisted analysis during your fleeting stay in his world. The way he speaks, dripping with condescension, casually dismantling any shred of common sense and courtesy while he picks you apart — it all coalesces into a singular point of white-hot rage.

As soon as the words "My dream journal?" leave your mouth in a shriek that’s raw and torn from your throat, you're already on the move, a storm surging forward to retrace her path.

Your hand snatches his collar, fingers bunching into the soft fabric of his ridiculous robe, and you yank him down with a force that knocks the smirk clean off his face.

“You think this is about some childish fantasy? This is my life you’re sneering at and feel oh so comfortable just telling me to stop being miserable like a king demanding a court jester to stop the performance! You stand there, draped in… in whatever that is, looking like you’ve never had a real problem in your entire existence, and you dare to—to—"

Words fail you for a moment, choking on the sheer audacity of him. You jab a finger in his face, trembling. “You know nothing! Nothing about what it’s like to pour your heart and soul into something, to sacrifice, to believe you’re finally on the right track, only to come to hate the world you fought so hard to become a part of laugh in your face and send you crawling back with your tail between your legs! To have that piece of paper, that golden ticket, turn out to be worth less than the fancy toilet paper in your aunt’s gilded bathroom!”

The outburst rips through you and shakes your lungs, shuddering and violent as a rogue wave. Rafayel’s provoking smirk is gone and has been for a while now, replaced by a chilling attentiveness that is almost a calculated switch flip. He isn’t playing with the conch anymore. The silence that envelops him is more taunting than any argument could muster, as if he’s forgotten that it was he who kept prodding the beehive that is your emotions.

His eyes, wide and glazed over, seem to have lost their focus, and his lips part slightly. There's a subtle shift in his stance — not retreating, but leaning ever so slightly toward you in the space between you that has compressed.

But you don't see it.

Instead, you're consumed by the pounding of your own pulse echoing in your ears and the solid presence of him beneath your grip that you want to crumple up like paper. The warmth emanating from his skin where your knuckles graze the curve of his collarbone register as your own with how your blood is on fire. You’re too far gone, drowning in a turbulent sea of anger and humiliation, the raw sting of a confession laid bare keeping you blind to how still he’s become, blinding you to his dazed expression, as if he's caught in the eye of something both sacred and shattering.

“It’s not just about not getting to live what I planned!” you continue, voice cracking, like a mirror, or a dream, the pent-up shame and frustration of months, years, finally breaching the dam. “It’s the looks! The pitying smiles! ‘Oh, back so soon?’ ‘Couldn’t hack it out there, huh?’ It’s seeing everyone else move on, build lives, while you’re stuck in reverse, replaying all your failures! It’s the crushing weight of knowing you disappointed everyone, especially yourself. And then,” the words tumble out of your mouth like sea glass, smooth and worn down by years of turmoil and emotion. “then the worst part is… sometimes… sometimes it doesn’t even feel that bad. Being back on that ferry, feeling the deck under my feet, the people, the salt spray on my face… it feels right. It feels like breathing again after nearly drowning. And that, that tiny bit of relief, that’s the most shameful part of all! To find comfort and secretly enjoy the thing you were supposed to leave behind because it means you’ve failed at everything else! What did I do it all for if I was going to end up right back where I started, then?”

You take a moment to swallow down the angry tears, not looking up from your shaking hand about to rip his necklace right off. “Every single day I betray myself whenever I feel any kind of joy here. So yeah. Yeah, it is the shame. Is that what you wanted to hear? Does it feel good to hear that you were right?”

The ensuing quiet is deafening, filled only with the sound of water gently lapping against the shore and the occasional squawk of a seabird overhead. You can almost hear the ghost of his damned smirk in the breeze, can imagine his smugness, the satisfaction of having cracked open your vulnerabilities and laid them bare for his observation and mockery. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the humiliation in your face, the stinging in your nose that signals imminent tears, the tightness in your chest that threatens to suffocate you.

"No," he says softly, and the unexpected tenderness in his tone startles you.

Your head snaps up in a whip of your hair, your watery glare piercing through him, daring him to continue his charade of concern or pity, whichever cruel act he chooses to indulge in next. But his face betrays none of that. Instead, his features are etched in an earnest, worried way that's as foreign as his touch had been to you.

His brows are drawn together, lips pursed in a slight frown, and his irises are a stormy plum, darkened with a sincerity that seems out of place in the vibrant colors of the lagoon. His fingers twitch and relax, a rhythmic, anxious pulsing that makes the opals in his rings catch and refract the light, casting tiny, scattered prisms on his skin.

What is he, a child? What’s with the sudden remorse? He’s the one who provoked you to get the reaction he wanted. This isn’t a bonding moment, nor was it indended to be so. He taunted you without using a single offensive insult, made assumptions about you that hit all the weak places, all from his high horse — just to appear backpedaling at the very last second?

Yeah, no. You don’t fuck with that. He’s playing with you, the bastard.

"We’re done here," you spit, drop the grip you have on him, and begin marching off toward the direction of the manor, hoping to put enough distance between you and him before the dam breaks and the flood comes, your feet kicking up small splashes of water.

You stop though, sniffle vindictively, holding a finger up as if you just remembered something, and turn around, "One more thing. I hope you enjoyed making a show out of me and the momentary entertainment you got. Because the moment you take a step outside this island and cross my path, the first thing that I see that'll fit in my hand will be used to knock you flat on that dumb, pretty face of yours," you promise. "I don't care if you're rich enough to get me in trouble. Trust I have more reach than you. I don't even care you saved my life. Fucking stay away from me."

"You think my face is pretty?"

"Go fuck yourself!" The scream is so loud and sharp that the flock of seagulls perched on the rocks scatter in alarm, taking flight in a cacophony of screeches and flapping wings, leaving him alone in the center of the lagoon, his silhouette a lone figure in the midst of the disturbed waters and the swirling sand.

Rafayel stares at the wake of your departure, the conch shell in his hand. A slow, drunk smile unfurls across his face — half-dazed, half-devotional — as his knuckles drift upward, the pad of his thumb catching on the swell of his bottom lip.

As you round a curve shaded by flowering jacaranda trees, their purple blossoms fallen confetti on the path, you hear them. Voices. Familiar voices. Your parents. They are alare ready on the patio, Mom is sitting in one of the wrought-iron chairs, her shoulders hunched forward as she speaks animatedly with Talia, who is perched on the edge of her own seat, listening with that same serene attentiveness. Dad stands a little way off, near the balustrade, his arms crossed, looking out at the view, though his posture is stiff, alert.

The sight of them, solid and real, and oh-so-familiar, nudges a younger version of yourself from deep inside. You are suddenly a child again, wanting nothing more than to run to your mother and sob on her shoulder, to have your father stroke your hair and murmur comforting words after a nightmare.

“Mom? Dad?”

Their heads snap up. Mom gasps, a choked sound, and then she is out of her chair, stumbling slightly as she rushed towards you. “Oh, my baby! My baby!”

She collides with you in a fierce hug, her small frame trembling against yours, the familiar scent of her soap and worry enveloping you. You cling back, burying your face in her hair, the fight with Rafayel momentarily forgotten, replaced by a wave of overwhelming relief and a fresh surge of guilt for the fear you’d put them through.

Dad is there a second later, his big hands gripping your shoulders and rubbing your back, his eyes, red-rimmed, scanning you from head to toe. “You’re alright? You’re really alright?”

“I’m okay, Dad,” you manage thickly. “I’m so sorry I almost lost the ferry—”

“No, no, don't,” Mom sobs, pulling back to cup your face, her thumbs wiping at tears you hadn’t realized were falling. “We thought… we thought…”

“We’re just glad you’re safe,” Dad finishes, gruff with emotion. He turns to Talia, who has risen and is watching with a soft smile. “Mrs. Talia, we… we can’t thank you enough.”

“It was truly no trouble at all,” Talia says warmly. “Though, I must correct you. It was my nephew Rafayel, who found her and brought her here. He’s the real hero of the hour.”

As if summoned, Rafayel has appeared at the edge of the patio, presumably sneaking through while your family was having a group hug, his purple robe now clinging damply to his frame, the ends darkened and heavy. He's avoiding your gaze, his own fixed on a particularly interesting patch of flagstone near his bare feet, a subtle pout playing on his lips, looking less like a Ghibli prince and more like a drowned, petulant kitten.

Your parents turn to him, their expressions shifting to awe and gratitude.

“Rafayel, is it? Young man, we owe you everything,” Dad says, extending a hand.

“Yes. Yes, we do. Thank you, dear,” Mom echoes, stepping closer. “How can we ever repay you?”

“No need.” He finally looks up, his smile radiant, but his body language awkward, almost shy, as he takes Dad's hand in a firm shake. His fingers, long and pale, are a striking counterpoint to Dad's work-roughened grip, the glint of his rings catching in the sunlight and highlighting his slender digits. "I'm happy to help. Anyone would've done the same in my place."

"Nonsense," Dad insists, pumping Rafayel's hand enthusiastically. "You went above and beyond.”

"There must be something we can do. A reward, a gift, anything. It's the least we can offer."

"Oh, no. Really, you're too kind. Seeing her safe is the only reward I could ask for."

"But—"

"I won't accept anything, please, I insist." As they speak, the two of you lock gazes over their heads, and his smile stretches a fraction wider. "Besides," he continues, returning his attention to your parents. "There's no greater treasure than reuniting a family."

The conversation that follows is a short one. Your parents want to take you home as soon as possible and get you checked out by your doctor. They are adamant to pay Rafayel though, or at least send a gift, and he remains unfailingly polite and gracious in his refusal, which is infuriating since you know him to be the opposite of those things.

In fact, every part of this is irritating. The exchanged numbers with Talia, the promise of staying in touch, the hugs goodbye; all of it feels surreal, like it's happening to someone else, and you're merely an observer, hovering somewhere outside your own body. And then, just like that, it's over. You are being ushered away and find yourself in the boat your parents have taken here instead of the ferry. The motor chugs to life, and the shoreline slips away, carrying with it the island, the manor, Talia, and Rafayel.

He's standing on the dock, the sun beginning its descent behind him, his silhouette growing smaller and fainter. He raises a hand in farewell, a gesture that seems both oddly formal and strangely intimate. You don’t return it.

You miss Raf so bad.

“Are you absolutely sure you’re alright?” Mom's voice carries over the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull, a question she'd posed at least a hundred times. Dad is keeping one ear on the conversation, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigates through the choppy waters. “No headaches or dizziness?”

Wrapped snugly in a blanket she had insisted upon, you feel the boat's engine thrumming beneath your feet, a comforting vibration that seems to resonate with your bones. "I'm fine, Mom. Just tired," you slur your words, leaning into her shoulder. The warmth and familiar scent of her lull you into a drowsy haze now that you're fully safe.

“Let me just check,” she tuts, her hand gently probing your side through the blanket. “You said you hit your side when you fell?”

You remember the sharp pain when you tried standing up on that beach, the way you’d clutched your side, the blood staining your ripped turtleneck and the sand you were resting on. “Yeah, I think I got a nasty cut on the rocks or something.”

Mom frowns, her fingers pressing more firmly. “Where? I don’t feel anything. Are you sure it was this side?”

You sit up, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach, pulling the blanket away and lifting the hem of the borrowed sweater, then the t-shirt underneath. Your fingers trace the skin of your side, where the jagged rocks of the Teeth should have left their mark.

There's nothing.

Not a scratch, not a sore bruise, not even a faint pink line to indicate where the bleeding stripeis had been. The skin is smooth, unblemished,.

You stare, bewildered, your mind racing back to the searing pain, the crimson stain, Rafayel not wanting to be piggybacked because he was afraid of hurting you further. It was real. You recall it clearly.

“See?” Mom sighs, relieved. “Nothing there. You must have just imagined it in all the chaos, poor thing.”

discord is broken? tumblr is a cesspit? twitter is evil? join us on bleeble! talkr is free ^w^. all your friends are moving over to deadjournal. harassmeonline is open source and the devs only killed three people. nobodytalksforum has great moderators. poob's starting up an sms app. use poob. give poob your phone number. talk to me on poob. go to poob. dive into poob. poob has me for you. poob has me for you.

(5) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Your time in university is a downward spiraling disaster temporarily put on hold whenever you get to visit home and resume attempts to reconcile with your beloved seal, who seems like he'll never forgive you for leaving. A band being pulled from both ends is bound to snap eventually.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 12k | read on ao3

< previous | next (wip) >

note: i apologize for the wait (again)!! i hope the word count makes up for it !!!!! im a lying liar who lies though. human raf next chapter . sorgy </3 and if any of you is a museum major, remember this is a fantasy land where seals can turn into humans and im allowed to make mistakes even tho i researched. thank you!

You come home for spring break with your sketchbook spine cracked from overuse and your first-year, first-semester syllabus crushed beneath half-finished elevation diagrams, smudged object labels, and two drafts of a museum display plan you still don’t understand. Your tote still smells faintly of plaster from the failed mount-building demo in your Material Culture and Object Handling class, fingers bearing charcoal from rushed object sketches and dry glue from a labeling prototype you smudged the night before critique.

There's also a bent metro card. A crumpled worksheet on humidity control from Fundamentals of Conservation. A balled-up napkin scribbled with a reminder to fix the syntax on your object description draft for Writing for Cultural Institutions.

It’s the quiet clutter of someone trying too hard to catch up in a world where everyone else seems to have already memorized the map.

You tell Mom you’re helping with the harbor cleanup, though the truth is you couldn’t spend another minute under fluorescent lights or in a dorm shared with three girls who somehow all seem impossibly ahead.

One’s a biology major who’s always lugging around a lab manual and her phone alarm goes off three times a night to remind her to check some ongoing culture assignment. Another is in photography and just got a feature on the campus arts blog, she spent the break taking foggy morning shots around the reservoir and somehow made them look like a film set. The third is majoring in media studies and recently joined the university’s documentary club, she’s been recording mock voiceovers at 2 a.m., softly narrating into her phone with the lights off like the room’s a sound booth.

You’re still figuring out how not to smudge your object labels or second-guess how to pronounce vitrines.

She doesn’t question you. Just hands you an old jacket and tells you to wear a scarf because she knows your next stop. The air bites harder this time of year, and you look like you’ve been hollowed out by deadlines and dorm-room junk food.

You take the ridge path out of habit. The same winding switchbacks carved into the cliffs, softened by briny grass and your own childhood footsteps. Your boots skid a little like you've already forgotten how to walk on this terrain. It’s stupid, probably. You haven’t been here since August. But your feet carry you to the cove where he used to wait for you — where he could still be. Maybe. You wouldn’t know.

The tide’s out. The sand is coarse and wind-swept, strewn with driftwood and slick stones that catch the light like wet coins. You sit on the rock you always claimed, smoothed by time and salt, and let the cold climb up through your jeans until it settles into your spine like a held breath. You hunch forward, listening to the water breathe in and out, over and over, like it’s trying to tell you something you’ve forgotten how to hear.

He doesn’t come.

You don’t whistle. Not this time. The sound is still tucked behind your teeth, tight in your throat, where it aches like something half-swallowed. It’s your call, your note, and it would rise easy if you let it. But right now, it would feel too much like an apology.

Instead, you press your hands to the earth, grounding yourself in its silence. Near your boot lies a broken fish spine, arched and pale, a tiny crescent of something once alive. You pick it up without thinking and tell yourself it’s just habit. Just instinct.

Back in the city, it ends up pinned beneath mylar in a shadowbox for your Introduction to Museum Studies course. Labeled neatly in pencil: "Unidentified specimen, coastal origin." You write it with disgruntled detachment, trying to echo the tone your professor used when reviewing everyone’s labeling drafts the week before. Your classmates brought in bits of pottery, manufactured junk, bones bleached too clean by city air. Yours smells faintly of brine.

You imagine Raf, briefly, nosing it toward shore like a gift. 

You come home again in April, skipping a mandatory field visit at the Maritime Conservation Annex. You were supposed to be cataloguing replica ship parts, jotting down environmental exposure notes, and identifying surface decay patterns. Instead, you take the overnight ferry with a knot behind your eyes and a sketchbook full of crossed-out exhibit themes and poorly shaded elevation diagrams. You haven’t slept. You haven’t called ahead.

You tell Mom you missed her, the fact that you’re already burnt out hidden under your tongue, affecting your speech with its sheer size. You say that you miss the foghorn’s groan in the morning and the smell of the tide seeping through the floorboards. She doesn’t argue. She just hugs you with arms that smell like rosemary and old soap, tells you the storm passed last night, and lets you sleep until noon, doesn’t comment on the dark circles under your eyes, and leaves a thermos of tea waiting for you on the windowsill.

The beach is wider than you remember. Stretched out and wind-swept, as though the tide’s been dragging its fingers farther inland in your absence. Or maybe you’re just weaker now, after months of stairs and static and deadlines. You walk anyway. Your body remembers how.

The cove is empty. But not untouched.

Shells form a crescent near the waterline. But that’s only what you notice first. Look closer, there’s more.

A pocketknife you lost in tenth grade, rusted but unmistakable.

The twist of ribbon from your old field journal, weighed down with a pebble. Even a museum flyer — sun-bleached, soggy at the corners, but somehow intact — folded into a crude triangle with teeth marks on it and pinned beneath a polished clam shell.

Your pink hair tie from last summer, faded and stretched, looped carefully around a shard of sea glass.

A cracked keychain from the ferry gift shop that had once jingled off your backpack.

A dried daisy chain from that sun-glutted afternoon you spent lying face-down in the dunes, your voice hoarse from reading funny tweets aloud and laughing when he splashed too close.

A bottle of cheap, glittery nail polish you swore you’d use for toe-dipping pictures but never did.

A torn polaroid, the edges warped with salt, showing a particularly flattering picture of you taken by your cousin just this summer.

Even your library card, still laminated, still bent at the corner, with a picture of a 15 year old you. 

Not scattered — placed. Tucked into the sand with intention, like offerings. Like memory made physical.

You crouch, brushing your fingertips over the nearest shell. Damp. Fresh. A trail. A message. A stubborn, silent kind of loyalty.

You sit down on the cold, salted stone, the one you always claimed, and pull your knees to your chest, fingers digging into the familiar grooves along the edge. Your hand brushes the lining of your pocket and closes around something small — your enamel ferry pin, the one from your very first shift, belonging to the family business. The metal’s dulled and the backing is loose, but the weight of it feels like everything you’ve been holding in.

You hesitate only a moment before you set it down between two stones, nestling it beside the knife and the ribbon like you're adding to an altar you hadn’t realized he’d built.

Then, using your index finger, you drag a line through the sand beside the offerings. It starts as an oval circle, round and oversized, and then you give it flippers, a belly, and an exaggerated frown that hooks comically toward its chin. Two tiny dots for eyes, drawn close together with a tight squiggle between them, a makeshift furrow where no brows exist, and curly whiskers of course. A giant, miserable seal stares back at you from the sand, all pout and slump and silent accusation. You snort despite yourself. It’s terrible. It’s perfect.

You whistle. A low, rising note that used to send ripples across the water, used to make him appear like something conjured. It hangs there in the salty air, stretching out toward the horizon, unanswered.

The wind pulls at your hair. The sea keeps its secrets.

You wait longer than you should. Long enough for the cold to settle under your fingernails, for your hope to thin out into something quieter.

And then, finally, you stand. Brush the sand from your palms. Turn back toward the path and go back home. 

The departure for summer break isn’t the relief of the finish line everyone else made it out to be. Your roommates had been buzzing about it for weeks — finishing final submissions, stealing extra dining hall muffins, swapping playlists for their train rides home, romanticizing porch naps and home-cooked meals and feeling proud of a year well survived. They spoke about it like the reward phase of some coming-of-age movie, like they had earned the softness waiting at home.

For you, it’s the world’s slowest walk of shame.

There’s no big exhale. No victory lap. Just the sun biting at the back of your neck and a guilt-shaped stone lodged somewhere under your breastbone. Your suitcase is heavier than the time you left with it, not with books or clothes, but with the silence of multiple failed classes, and a transcript that feels like a wound folded up in your back pocket.

You’ve already told your parents you needed the summer to "reset." They nodded. Didn’t ask. You think that’s worse. Like they’re afraid pressing would crack you open.

You don’t tell them about the grades. About the meetings. About the email with the subject line: "Academic Standing Review." You don’t tell them about the week you spent avoiding the registrar’s office or how you couldn’t sleep without hearing the chime of overdue assignment reminders in your head. Or the way you started flinching at the sound of email notifications altogether. Like the ping alone could pierce skin.

You don’t tell them how you cried in the library bathroom for an hour after your group presentation fell apart. Or how you walked out of your conservation final halfway through because you couldn’t remember the relative humidity range for organic textiles and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Instead, you clean your room. Fold your sketchbook closed without looking at the last page. You pretend. Harder than you’ve ever pretended before. Smile through dinner. Nod when spoken to. Sleep like it’s your only job. You spend a week pretending to be fine.

And then you go to the cove when you feel like you've earned the right to breathe.

You spot him just offshore the first day you return — a sleek dark head bobbing between the waves like a buoy with an agenda. Your heart skips, already caught halfway between hope and apology. But then, as if summoned solely to deny you, he dips back under before you can even part your lips.

You whistle anyway. The tune, meant to be light and teasing, comes out brittle. It cracks at the end.

He doesn’t come.

The next morning, you wake up early and rinse out a chipped enamel bowl, the one he always used to nudge with his nose like a dinner bell. You fill it with sardines and leave it by the tide line like an offering. By evening, they’re gone — but so is he. Again.

Day three, you escalate: you bring the ridiculous honking pink rubber duck he used to steal from your basket when you were in your horse desensitizing era and treat like sacred treasure. You place it in the sand and turn your back with forced indifference, sitting cross-legged and reading an old paperback you aren’t really following.

An hour later, he appears at the edge of your vision. He doesn’t approach — just watches. Stares. Then, without warning, he lunges forward, snatches the duck, and flings himself backward into the surf with an almost theatrical flip of his tail.

Day four, you whistle three times. He surfaces once.

Day five, you wade knee-deep into the water and shout his name. He appears a good thirty feet out and just... floats. Watching. Blinking. Drifting.

Day six, you bring the duck again. He doesn’t come. Later, you find the duck dragged halfway down the beach, left deliberately nose-down in a pile of seaweed.

Day seven, he waits until you’re packing up to surface. You turn around with the folded towel in your arms and catch him mid-dive, as if he’d timed it for maximum annoyance.

It’s become a battle of wills. He’s there, always. Just far enough to be unreachable. Just long enough to remind you he’s choosing this distance.

You whistle. He disappears. You sit. He surfaces. You move closer. He vanishes like smoke. Like he’s punishing you. Or teaching you a lesson. Or just enjoying the torment.

He hadn’t even made you work this hard the first time you met him, when you were fifteen and barefoot and slightly sunburned and he’d come right up to you like the sea itself had sent him.

But now? Now it’s like you have to earn him back.

You don't mind, you keep bouncing back. It’s like all the bad luck in the whole world has found their way to you once you left this creature’s side.

Nothing else is working to remedy this. Not the sleep, not the food, not the long walks with your phone turned off. You’ve done everything the counselors suggested. Advice from Reddit threads bookmarked at 2 a.m., typed by people who’d never met you but somehow still sounded kinder than you could stand. You tried all of it. Traced your breathing. Made gratitude lists. Journaled until the pages bled. Some of it helped for a few seconds, like aspirin against a broken bone. But you’re still unraveling.

You spend your mornings rewriting assignments that no longer count for practice to get better at academic writing. Afternoons rereading course emails with dates burned into your brain like scars. You’ve taken to organizing your notes by color-coded failure — red tabs for zeros, blue for extensions, yellow for all the things you said you’d redo but never did.

Even now, in the refuge of summer, you’re still chasing a version of yourself that keeps vanishing into the surf just like him.

You’re a string pulled tighter and tighter. A rubber band about to snap. Keep waiting for a release that doesn’t come. Even your dreams are full of waiting, missing trains, late exams, searching for classrooms that don’t exist. You wake up breathless, mouth dry. Every day feels like trying to outrun something just out of sight.

And the one place you thought you’d feel safe again won’t let you in.

It’s on the tenth day that you snap.

You come down to the beach after dinner, barefoot, your hoodie damp from where you dropped it in the sink. The sky is lavender and low. Your breath won’t even out, throat raw from holding back everything you can’t name.

He’s there. Lounging on his rock like a king. Indifferent to you.

It's the final straw.

You just crumple. One moment you’re standing there with the whistle still echoing out of your lungs, and the next you’re on your knees in the sand like the weight finally caught up to you mid-step. It’s not graceful. It’s not cinematic. It’s just broken. Pathetic. You curl up tight in the same spot you used to nap in when you were younger, half-shielded by dune grass and shadow, and dig your phone out of your hoodie pocket with hands that won’t stop shaking.

You open the group chat with Tara, Macie, and Simone. Hit record.

"Okay," you whisper, then immediately press the heel of your palm to your eye. "I — fuck, I’m sorry, I know this is so abrupt. I don’t know how to say this. I’m — I feel like I’m gonna fall out of my body or — I don’t know. I didn’t tell you guys. I didn’t tell anyone. I failed. Three classes. Not just badly — like, failed-failed. Like I have meetings and I’m on probation and I can’t — I can’t keep up and I thought if I worked harder it would get better and it didn’t, it just — it just got worse."

You’re crying too hard to sniff. Your breath is hitching like something’s wrong with your lungs. You keep recording.

"I can’t tell my parents. Not — not after I screamed about needing this. How I had to leave, how I was suffocating here and — and now what? I come back with nothing but a GPA circling the drain and I can’t—"

You make a sound like a laugh but it cracks halfway through.

You swallow this part down, but your brain cites it like tacks being rattled around in your skull. And Raf — he won’t even look at me. He won’t come near me. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m gone. I thought maybe — maybe it’s like, object permanence? Like babies? You leave too long and they forget you exist? Maybe he doesn’t remember me. Maybe I left too long and now I’m just—

You cut off with a sob you try to swallow, but it just rattles out of you louder.

"I don't know. I don't know, it's so fucking stupid. I feel so stupid. I thought I was gonna be — fine. Like, I thought I could handle it, just keep my head down and get through it, and now I’m on probation and I don’t even know what that means, not really, like how close am I to getting kicked out? How bad is bad? What happens if I can’t fix it next year, what if I can’t fix anything, what if I already ruined it — ? And I keep telling myself I’m gonna catch up but it just keeps slipping, and I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what any of this was for—"

You choke. Cough. Curl tighter.

Somewhere behind you, the sand explodes in a flurry of movement — snorting, huffing, frantic slapping. A full-body rustle and a high, unmistakable blubbering honk. It’s been happening for a while now, just filtering into your ears after the ringing in them starts fading away the more you let the poison drain by finally talking it out.

You pause the recording. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Then you hear it: a wet, frantic percussion — flippers slapping against the sand in a staggered staccato, speeding up like something big and heavy hurtling downhill. It's fast. Too fast. Just chaos and wobble and blind, blubbery urgency. Like someone dropped a weighted water balloon and it decided to sprint.

You barely have time to turn your head before it happens.

He rounds the dune like a meteor with a mission, sand flying in every direction, his eyes wide with purpose and panic. Raf barrels into view like a runaway suitcase filled with guilt and righteous offense. His body jiggles so violently with momentum that every bounce forward looks like he might detonate.

And he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he speeds up.

He slams into your side with the force of someone who’s never learned the meaning of caution, knocking you flat onto your hip with a surprised grunt that bursts out of you like a punched balloon. It’s not gentle. It’s not coordinated. It’s not even particularly graceful.

But it is immediate. And it is him. 

The shock of it jolts something loose in your chest. Your panic attack hiccups. Stalls. You suck in a breath that almost turns into a laugh. Almost.

He shoves his nose under your arm with a whimper and settles his full, ridiculous weight against your ribs.

You let the sobs come in full this time, but they’re softer now. Messy. Grateful. Raf makes a warbling, almost defeated sound, then promptly rolls onto his back like he’s surrendering to fate itself. One flipper flops out like he’s fainting. The other tucks to his chest. His stomach rises like a little hill of warmth and resignation.

You blink at him, chest still heaving, nose running, and before you can think twice, you collapse onto him like he’s a novelty beanbag chair you’ve been emotionally blackmailed into needing, it's a travel pillow made of grief and blubber and the kind that will most likely scurry away once you’re okay again.

By your second year, the returns aren’t marked by breakdowns or urgent flights from failure. They creep in like late rain. Unannounced. Not unwelcome, but damp with something you can’t quite shake off.

The travel is tiring in the dullest way — long waits, bad vending machine coffee, a stiffness in your back from sitting still for too long while your mind keeps moving, always spinning on what you should’ve done differently. There’s nothing glorious about it. You arrive with skin that smells like someone else’s laundry soap and a mind still half-occupied by half-finished drafts.

You’ve started disciplining yourself not to go back home often. Not every setback is a reason to run. Not every bad grade should end at the cove. You tell yourself this like it’s a rule, a boundary, a growing pain. The windows to return feel narrower now, less like open arms, more like checkpoints you have to earn your way through.

You think, if you treat it like medicine, measured and sparing, it’ll mean more. That it’ll hurt less to stay away if you’ve decided to do it on purpose. It’s an experiment in self-control. In learning to stand on your own two feet. You even write it down in your planner like a mantra: "Earn your quiet. Don’t escape to it."

But the restraint frays at the edges the longer it holds when it comes to the kind of silence that grows between living things when time stretches too far. Not quite a grudge. Not affection either. Just distance that’s had too much time to settle in its shape. That’s what you and Raf become. A shape that no longer fits the way it used to.

You think about the story your parents used to tell when they wanted to scare you and your siblings off your recurring "I want a pet" phases — the one about the cat they had to rehome when Mom got pregnant with your oldest brother. It used to sleep above Mom’s head every night, curled like a question mark on her pillow, purring against her scalp. They’d had her for years. She was part of the household. Then, overnight, she wasn’t.

Your parents didn’t sugarcoat it. The cat never forgave them. The neighbor said she’d hiss if she so much as smelled Mom’s perfume. She’d turn her back whenever Dad entered the room. Once, she growled loud enough to make Mom cry.

That story used to make you cry. Now it just makes sense.

You wonder if Raf has the same mechanism wired deep inside him — not quite revenge, not memory in the way people understand it, but something animal and old that withholds affection not out of cruelty, but out of instinct. A quiet kind of rejection. A closing off. Something cold-blooded in the way he recognizes you, but doesn’t rise to meet you. That primitive, wordless ability to turn away and mean it.

You try to explain it to yourself the way a naturalist might: that bonds can decay in the wild when time goes unaccounted for. That animals forget scent, forget the way something felt when it was constant. Even social species will let go of their own after too long apart. In flocks. In herds. Maybe this is just that — an adaptation. A recalibration. Nothing personal.

But it feels personal.

You tell yourself you haven’t cried over it. That you’re grown now. You know what he is. But every time he stays in the water, every time he looks at you and doesn’t move, it stings. Not like punishment. Like being erased from something you thought was permanent. Like being forgotten by someone who used to run toward you with open arms — or flippers.

He’s adjusted to the long gaps. You can tell. He doesn’t pace the shore or look toward the house. He’s not waiting. But he knows when you come back. He always knows.

When you come back in the autumn — briefly, for the week the university grants between midterms and burn-out — he doesn’t rush to the shoreline. He’s out in the water when you arrive, bobbing just past the drop-off like he’s part of the sea itself. You whistle once. He doesn’t respond with the same matching melodied chirps. Just snorts in response, slow and unbothered. You sit on the sand anyway, shivering through your hoodie, and talk about how you’re passing now. Barely. But still.

The sky darkens. He doesn’t come closer.

When you stand to leave, he’s gone.

You tell yourself it’s okay. You’d already decided not to need him the way you used to and start relying on the companionship of human beings like your roommates. But even then, you still find yourself slipping little things into the beach when he’s not looking — offerings without ceremony. A piece of your sandwich. A bandana that smells like you. Once, a silly pebble shaped like a heart that you almost pocketed but didn’t. You leave them near where you sit and pretend not to watch.

Sometimes, they vanish. Sometimes, they don’t. But the next time you return, there's something different. Arranged driftwood in a crooked ring. A crab shell turned upright like a bowl. That pebble in the middle of that bowl. 

You try not to read into it, but the pattern starts to form. You leave something. He answers. Never directly. But clearly.

So it becomes a back-and-forth. You bring objects. He rearranges the shore. Maybe leaves something in return like a weird trading conversation. It's not forgiveness. It's not closeness. But it's something. Like playing a slow-motion game across weeks and waves. Like he's reminding you that while he might not come close, he hasn’t forgotten how to speak to you.

You start playing back. You bring him things that are more intentional now — not random. A pink shell shaped like a comma. A bottle cap with a fish on it. You leave them in a particular corner of the cove, beside a rock he used to sun himself on.

When you return, they’re stacked differently, like he's shifted them with his nose. Once, you find the bottle cap perched carefully atop a stone like a crown.

It becomes a game with no score. You never talk about it, of course. You never even look at him when you do it. But he knows. And he answers.

Winter comes. You don’t make it home. Snowed in by assignments. Stranded by train delays and emails that stack up like debt. You keep a seal keychain clipped to your backpack. Talk to it sometimes when the dining hall’s too loud. It smells faintly like sunscreen and stress.

Spring break, you visit again. He meets you halfway down the beach this time. Doesn’t wait on his rock. Doesn’t flinch when you sit. You watch him nap for a full hour just as how things used to be like it’s a sacred ritual, your fingers itching to pet him, but feeling like you're probably not allowed to do that anymore.

Later, as you’re brushing the sand from your jeans and readying to leave, you notice something at your feet. A shell you didn’t bring. Pale and ridged, curved like a crescent moon. Nestled into the print your heel left behind.

And so it goes.

The summer before your fourth year arrives with more noise than usual. There’s luggage on the porch that doesn’t belong to you. Voices in the hallway. Bright sandals left by the door. The smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom and the clatter of your name being called from the kitchen in someone else’s cadence.

You brought them here — Theo, and the girls.

It still feels strange to say it in your head that way. Theo, and the girls. As if he’s earned his own category. As if he belongs to the orbit that’s always just been yours. Like naming him among them makes it more permanent, more real than you’re used to admitting.

Theo... Your first ever boyfriend, is a law major with immaculate notes and a resting face so unreadable it makes you want to fluster him on purpose. You only met because of an elective you got roped into by the girls — something general and discussion-heavy that promised easy credit and turned out to be anything but. The kind of course where you had to talk more than listen. Where participation was part of your grade, and no one let you disappear into your own thoughts.

You sat across from him, expecting nothing. But Theo asked questions like he wanted the long answer, like he was collecting your words instead of waiting for his turn to speak. You remember the way he used to furrow his brow when you talked about maritime heritage and museum archiving in that offhanded way you did — like your interest wasn’t worth noting, so you just cut your ideas short so the next person could start talking. He disagreed. Kindly. Plainly. Made you feel your voice belonged in the room.

Perhaps it was the constant turn of his head to your direction that pulled you in. Recognition and acknowledgment after being deprived of it.

It started small. Shared readings. Group projects. Walks back from lectures when the hallway buzz had quieted. Jokes over cafeteria food that weren’t really jokes. You noticed how he took up space without pressing against yours, how he listened without waiting to speak. He had this way of holding silence after you said something, like he was letting the weight of it settle before he answered. Until one day he showed up outside your studio with a coffee you didn’t know he knew you liked.

And slowly, it became a thing. Not a crush. Not fireworks. Just a closeness you didn’t pull away from. You didn’t even realize that’s what was happening. It wasn’t a thunderclap. It wasn’t even a spark. It was more like a slow tide pulling up to your ankles — gradual and persistent. Letting yourself be comfortable. Letting someone stay.

So, your answer was an automatic "Yes," when he asked if you wanted to go out with him. 

There was a safety in it. Someone to text when your class let out early, someone to split snacks with at the library, someone to carry your bag when you were too tired to ask. Someone to go eat out with when you’d otherwise stay inside because the act of being perceived felt too sharp that day. Someone who sat next to you on the train and didn't feel the need to fill the silence. You didn’t feel the burn of longing around him, and that felt... sustainable. Manageable. It felt like something you could keep without breaking it.

So when summer came, and the suggestion floated — "What if we went somewhere quiet?" — you offered.

You talked it up the way someone talks about a childhood pet they’re not sure is still alive, all warmth and vague descriptions. “It’s peaceful,” you said. “You’ll like it.”

They were curious. Of course they were. Macie wanted to swim. Simone asked about your favorite tidepool spots. Tara just smiled and told you it’d be good for you to breathe island air again. Theo didn’t push to know more about your life back at home. He just held your hand under the table when you brought it up to them, like the decision had already been made the moment you opened your mouth.

When they asked about Raf, you lied without blinking. Told them he didn’t always stick around this time of year — something about seasonal wandering, maybe mating behaviors. You said it like you’d read it in an article, even though you hadn’t. Even though you knew exactly where he would be if he were around.

Not because you were hiding him. Not really. Your girls already knew about your seal friend because you wouldn’t shut up about him. Your wallpaper and lockscreen were both of him, after all. Not to mention the album on your phone titled simply: “Cutie.” You’d shown them old videos. Clips of him flopping through the surf, close enough to touch. Of him screaming and making funny noises. 

But still. Still. Your friendship with Raf felt too private to be shared with anyone else. Like opening a box you hadn’t touched in too long, afraid the air would ruin what was inside. You were gatekeeping him before you realized there might not even be that much of a friendship left to show off. But that didn’t matter. You still didn’t want to introduce him to them.

Not even your parents had seen you with him. Not really. Not the way he used to follow you through the shallows like a shadow, not the way you used to press your face into his side like a warm, living stone and let the tide rise around you both. He was special and he was yours. You were proud of this connection you had carved out for yourself. Something wild and tender and unsupervised.

So, you don’t take them to the cove.

You pick another beach, one of the broader ones farther down the island — the kind people use for engagement shoots, family barbecues, the kind of place that shows up in someone else’s scrapbook, not your memory. It’s less intimate, less burdened by history. And that’s the whole point.

You tell them it was the easiest to reach. That the sand is fine, the tide pools were especially photogenic in the afternoon light. But deep down, you didn’t pick it for them. You picked it for your own comfort — because you know he wouldn’t be here. He doesn’t like crowds or people at all.

The sand here is pale and packed tight, the color of sifted flour. Flat rocks sit like little stages along the shore, and the tide pools glint with mica and tiny darting fish. Children shriek in the distance. Someone’s playing a bluetooth speaker nearby, something tinny and sun-soaked. The wind doesn’t bite here, it flutters its lashes. Everything about this place feels engineered for memory-making. Safe, palatable, curated. A beach designed to be preserved in pixels.

Theo lifts the cooler with one arm. Simone has the umbrella slung over her shoulder like a rifle. Tara trails behind, her flip-flops slapping rhythmically against the packed sand, laughing like the sun’s already sunk into her bloodstream. Macie’s filming everything — seagulls, a crab fight, the uneven hem of the horizon — and providing a running commentary in that absurd, exaggerated British documentary narrator voice that always makes the rest of you laugh.

You lag behind a few paces, pretending to dig through your tote bag for chapstick. Mostly, you’re watching their silhouettes bob forward, listening for how much of yourself is still tethered to them. You smile when they glance back.

They lay out the towels and start divvying drinks. Theo opens the cooler and gestures for you to pick first. You choose a juice box, half out of nostalgia, half because it’s easy. He leans into your shoulder with a quiet sort of ownership, chin pressing lightly against the curve where your neck meets your collarbone, his hand warm as it slides over your thigh.

The others break off like strands of sea foam — Simone crouching by the tide pools, pointing out green anemones and prodding gently at barnacles with the end of a sunglasses arm, Macie dancing backward to film a reel, Tara announcing she’s going to find “a rock with the most powerful energy.” You sink into the blanket, drink in hand, and pretend the sun is doing its job. The condensation slicks your palm; Theo’s elbow keeps knocking into yours each time he shifts, rummaging in the cooler for his drink.

Someone starts talking about sea glass. Macie thinks the little green shards come from old soda bottles. Simone insists some of it’s from shipwrecks. Tara finds a piece shaped like a heart and says she’s keeping it forever. Theo listens to them like it’s a podcast he’s only half-invested in, but he smiles whenever you laugh.

It feels ordinary. In that stretched, sugar-glazed way summer days do when you don’t look at the clock. You’re halfway through your juice when Macie’s voice cuts the day in two.

“Seal!” she cries, delighted.

You pause mid-sip.

Not startled — more like… struck. That word slices through the ambient noise like a tuning fork. Your body reacts faster than your brain. Somewhere in your chest, a thread pulls taut.

The others are already rushing toward the shore, sneakers kicking up sand. Simone’s got her phone out again. Tara gasps. “It's a chonker!”

“Are they common around here?” Theo’s voice is light as he squints toward the water. “I read something about conservation efforts in the northern colonies — tagging for tracking migratory habits.”

“They haul out sometimes,” you say. Your voice sounds far away. “Usually early in the season.”

You don't notice Tara staring, as if she's trying to ask you why Theo seems to be confused about the seal when it's common knowledge that you haul from a place with a seal population. 

“Get a load of this unit,” Simone says, laughing. “That’s not a seal, that’s a sentient ottoman.”

“I’m naming him Barnaby,” Macie announces. "Bernadette if female."

You rise without thinking.

The voices of your friends flatten into background static. Theo’s muttering about population markers again, something about dorsal notches and flipper scarring. Someone suggests a group selfie with the seal in the distance. You’re already stepping past them.

You move toward the shoreline like someone being pulled forward by the collar. The closer you get, the more the light shifts — the kind of shimmer that makes everything blur at the edges, like film that’s been left in the sun too long.

From a distance, it could be any seal. Big, lazy, glinting like riverstone in the tide. But your eyes track instantly to the shape bobbing just beyond the last rock.

You pass Macie, who’s still narrating. “Seriously, look at the spot pattern. He’s like a limited-edition beanbag.”

You stop just at the lip of the water, salt wind catching in your hair. The waves break around your feet like hands brushing past. The light fractures. You squint.

Then he shifts. Just slightly.

A tilt of the head. A flash of familiar scarring on the shoulder area. The slope of the skull. The unruly whiskers. The uneven patch where fur never quite grew back right.

That’s Raf, alright. No question.

What the hell?

It isn’t just that he’s here — it’s that he’s somewhere he never should be.

Raf doesn’t come to beaches like this. You know by heart now that he sticks to his own territory, avoiding crowded places the way skittish animals avoid noise, the way anything too aware of its own edges avoids spectacle. He has always preferred the cove, quiet and thick with sea mist, where nothing moves unless it belongs. Even during summer’s peak, when the whole island feels like a postcard come to life, he stays tucked away, content in his own paradise. You’d have to wait until sunset, until the last paddleboarder left, before he’d even dare surface. Sometimes not even then.

So seeing him now, in daylight, under the loudness of other people’s joy, within reach of clumsy sandals and cell phone lenses…

If you had to explain it, you might say this: that all those things you try to swallow — the loss, the homesickness, the worry — well, it all congeals into the same ache deep beneath your sternum. It manifests physically as if there was a physical place inside your chest cavity where emotion collected like sediment or rust or bruised fruit. It comes out in flickers, in ways you can't control. Things set it off: memories, sounds, smells, sensations you'd grown up being conditioned to associate with nostalgia and happiness in your subconscious, regardless of whether those things actually did make you happy anymore or not — just the trigger stimuli alone would bring about the longing that'd cause tears to prick at your ducts immediately, if only for a second.

Seeing him suddenly brings your feelings surging up in the same abrupt way they do when you're alone in your dorm room, trying to survive finals week. Now that he's there on the other side of the sea when you're over here with new friends surrounding you when it used to be just you two, a familiar tightening sensation unfurls inside, like something getting caught and torn in the cogs of your ribcage. It aches worse than you expected.

"Wait, though. Do we know if that's your seal buddy?" Macie asks, grinning widely. "Do you think I can pet him?"

"It is Raf, and no," you tell her firmly. "Just leave him be."

She gives you a surprised look. "You sure? They don't bite, do they? Or slap?"

"They won't but still..." You gesture vaguely towards the rest of them with a helpless shrug as you attempt to maintain control over your emotions, willing the lump forming at the base of your throat to dissipate.

"Seal buddy?" Theo asks. He's come up to your side without you noticing and has placed a comforting hand on your waist.

"You haven't told him about Raf?" Simone arches an eyebrow, looking amused. "The familiar to your sea witch?"

"C'mon..." you whine, not noticing the look you're being given by your boyfriend.

"Huh," he confirms after studying you intently for several long seconds.

A beat of silence passes between your group, a few questioning glances exchanged, before Theo speaks again, his tone carefully neutral. "We were dating for almost five months and you've never mentioned being friends with a seal?"

You couldn't just say that it naturally didn't come up when you in fact did not stop yapping about Raf to your roommates. It felt... childish. Self-centered, like bragging. Theo had a certain level of maturity beyond what you possessed, so it seemed fitting to keep quiet about how special and close you were with your adorable animal companion rather than risking exposing yourself as someone who talks about seals more someone with a marine biology major. You weren't exactly trying to hide it per se, either, more so keeping the information regarding the subject matter private and away from any potential prying or mocking... or perhaps the feeling itself.

Despite having already shared it with your friends.

…

Yeah, honestly, you don't know why you didn't tell him earlier, now that you think about it. It makes for a particularly awkward silence, as well.

One that gets interrupted by Tara's, "Oh my god, is he coming over here? Look!"

You whip around and indeed see Raf paddling his way onto shallow waters before picking up speed as he closes in on your location.

"That settles it. We gotta film this. Do you think it'd go viral?" Macie says excitedly, pushing play on her camera app while taking aim at you and Raf approaching.

"Viral," you mutter drily under your breath as you slowly start walking deeper into the water with the intent of greeting your friend properly for the first time since arriving at home.

Theo watches from the shoreline silently as everyone else bursts into applause and cheering once Raf arrives and immediately hops closer to you instead of anyone else present despite them attempting to coax him over with promises of food and various petting session offers, something they complain loudly about behind you.

"Hey, you little fucker," you grouse once within earshot, crouching down like a gangster stationed by a random corner on the pavement, elbows on knees. The words hold absolutely zero heat to them. "You've been giving me attitude bigger than your body mass ever since I left and now you decide to hobble on over when I'm with company? Really? You're like my mom trying to keep up appearances when guests come over. Who the heck do you think you are?"

Raf croons and chatters in response, nuzzling your bare legs affectionately before flopping heavily on your feet. He proceeds to roll around in the wet sand, looking every bit of pleased with himself for drawing a laugh from you when he looks up expectantly with wide, adoring dark eyes blinking innocently up at you.

Ha, look at this guy acting cute.

As if you weren't literally deprived of his presence for nearly the entire time you were away because he was too pissed to see your face, you realize with a sharp twang of bitterness, shaking your head in mock annoyance at the unfairness of the situation. What bullshit timing. He has to be doing this on purpose at this point. The big brat.

"Wow," your friends remark in awe simultaneously at the display occurring before their very astonished selves.

"So tame,” Theo remarks.

He pays them no mind whatsoever. Instead, his sole focus remains on you as he rolls upright so he may rear onto hind paws and balance against your bent knee. His whiskers tickle your skin, hot snorts stirring loose strands of hair fallen over your face, dampness from his breath transferring to your forehead. It's like he's giving you a vibe-check, sniffing you all over with little to no care towards the peanut gallery currently filming everything happening.

"This is fascinating," Theo comments from somewhere nearby, likely observing your interactions closely together with Tara and the rest. He comes to crouch beside you for a closer look. "I honestly thought they wouldn't engage humans unless approached first. Then again, I guess you've managed to build enough trust with that one to encourage friendly interaction..."

It's almost in slow motion that Raf turns his head towards your boyfriend, and to your absolute shock, curls his back in a way you've never see him do before, baring his teeth at Theo in the most hostile display you've ever seen from a creature known to have such a placid temperament.

It's when the unfamiliar purring-rumble starts rising from his throat that you come back to reality and tilt your body away from a jaw-dropped Theo, effectively making a barrier between the two. "Oh my god, no, Theo, I'm so sorry! Please back off, okay? Just take a couple steps back, please, and I'll handle this—"

The rumble becomes louder, sharper. To the surprise of everyone present, Raf crawls over your leg and hip possessively like a large lapdog might climb into a couch and lie on their owner for warmth, deliberately placing himself in between you and a wide-eyed Theo, staring pointedly at your boyfriend until he backs away completely to rejoin the girls watching with horrified fascination on the beach. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing he did not bite nor hit anyone in his frenzy.

It takes you pulling back to sit flat on your butt that he relents finally and allows you to maneuver him onto your lap so you may bury fingers deep into the thick, dense fur around his neck area and massage him into calm submission. "What is with you today," you reprimand softly as the aggressive sounds gradually subside into gentle yips. "I thought you forgot me or something, and now look at you. Like no time passed at all."

Raf doesn't seem apologetic in the least, if the way he snuggles even closer in your arms and throws in a lick across your cheekbone indicates anything. With his chin hooked securely over your shoulder, tail thumping loudly against the water splashing quietly against your entangled legs, it seems pretty evident he has no plans of going anywhere anytime soon.

"I know I shouldn’t be surprised after seeing everything on your phone, but are seals really supposed to behave like this?" Macie asks aloud uncertainly, putting her camera down.

You shrug, absently continuing to knead downwards along Raf's side. He shifts under your hands, the smooth, slippery texture of his skin bunching under your fingertips pleasantly as he leans further into you with increasing insistence.

"He's just domesticated," Simone offers, coming closer to better assess the situation. "Look, he's not food motivated."

"An expert family friend of mine told me I could have formed a small pod with him without knowing it. Like, a unit of a colony."

"Like a bonded pair?" Tara joins in.

"Maybe the word you're looking for is just bonded. He could have imprinted on her. Like a duck," Theo adds helpfully, gesturing to where you've now begun rubbing down your sulky seal friend's tummy while he rolls over unashamedly on his back for easier access. He's got his phone on his hand, gesturing to some article he found in no time. "This says young pups follow people they initially attach to for several minutes after birth sometimes and perceive them to be their mother. When exposed to higher levels of maternal influence after development, the bond grows stronger than it would have otherwise been possible to sustain by nature alone."

Raf grumbles soft under his breath, seeming disgruntled. What the fuck does he have to sigh about like that as if he's a single mom who works two jobs? He's not even an arctic seal who has to deal with diabolical orcas gunning after him 24/7.

But you're more concerned with this scene unfolding right now when you barely had any interaction with Raf over the past couple of years. He's being clingy when it was so obvious he was being distant and cold like a normal person would've behaved after a falling out...

And yes, it does sting quite badly for having the reunion be made to witness and scrutinized over by near-total strangers while your friends are having a conversation about seal behavior and looking things up on the internet in the background.

It really hurts even more since you expected a much earlier reception given your efforts at reconciliation... and then here comes Raf randomly deciding he's now okay on a random day for seemingly no reason whatsoever. Talk about emotional whiplash. What happened to the sulking and stubborn refusal to interact? Where did that go?

Well. Better late than never?

Hours pass. Eventually, the beach is emptying out.

The laughter is gone, or far enough to feel like it. Distant chatter rides the salt wind, but it doesn’t reach you, not really. The sky has bruised into mauve, sea lavender and charcoal layered thin across the horizon, all color is being dragged out like a damp cloth wrung slow.

Macie was the first to suggest heading back when the sour mood of Theo didn’t get any better, already talking about post-beach showers and cooking for your parents who’ve yet to return from the ferry for having them over. Simone followed with a promise to upload the best photos. Tara stayed behind just a little longer, watching you in that gentle, perceptive way of hers, before slipping away to give the two of you a space. Your towel is still damp beneath you, your bag a mess of half-unpacked things. And Raf hasn't budged from your side, pressed warm and firm into your hip as if anchoring you to this exact spot.

Theo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, half-turned toward the sea. He hasn’t spoken in minutes. You can feel it brewing though, like pressure in your ears before a storm.

When he finally does speak, he doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s a moderated accusation to it that makes your stomach tighten. “So... were you ever planning to tell me about him?”

You keep your eyes on your towel, fingers worrying at a loose thread that’s already frayed beyond saving. “It's not like I was keeping it from you, it must have just slipped my mind to mention it or something.”

He shifts, crossing and uncrossing his arms, feet grinding into the sand with impatient little pivots. “That’s not the part I’m stuck on,” he says, voice level. “It’s that everyone else knew. It didn't slip your mind with them.”

You lift your gaze briefly, catching his silhouette framed in the bleeding dusk. “I really wasn’t trying to hide him or something. I don’t talk about a lot of things.”

Theo’s shoulders fall with a tired breath. He’s not angry. Just tired. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

The air between you feels suddenly thinner.

You turn toward him fully. He’s wearing the expression you’ve come to recognize when he’s calculating every word before he says it. It’s hard to tell if it’s a personality trait or something his law professors taught him.

“I didn’t tell you about Raf because I didn’t know how,” you admit, the words small, almost fragile. “He was my best friend for years. And then... he wasn’t. I haven't properly spent time with him for three years now, the best I do is just seal watching from afar, and that's whenever I get home, which is. Sparse.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, jaw flexed.

“And then today, out of nowhere, he’s back. Like nothing happened. It's like my first proper interaction with him in forever.”

“I’m not asking for a play-by-play. I just want to know why you couldn’t share that part of your life with me. You're changing the subject.”

“I don't know,” you mutter, rubbing your palm against your leg. “It didn't occur to me I could. And I liked... I liked how clean things were with you.”

His brow knits. “Clean?”

“Like I didn’t have to unpack the past every time we talked. I could just be in the moment. Maybe that's why it didn't cross my mind at all.”

Theo exhales through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair with restless fingers. “And what moment are we even in now?”

You blink at him, the question hanging too heavily to dodge.

“Because I’ve been your boyfriend for five months—"

The seal in your lap jerks so suddenly as if shaken up from deep sleep to do a double-take between you and Theo with a distinct sputter and a sneeze, and you momentarily miss some of what's being said to you from watching the weird flailing in front of you.

"—sometimes I still feel like I’m waiting to become one. You sit beside me. You let me hold your hand. You even sleep next to me. But half the time, I feel like I’m dating someone who’s barely in the room.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it? You’re nice to me. You show up. You laugh. You don’t want to hurt me, I know that. But it’s like I’m an accessory in your day, not a person you’re choosing.”

Your gaze drops. Raf is staring off into the distance like a shell-shocked war veteran for some reason and you swear his eyes are about to look in different directions.

Theo watches your fingers curl into the seal’s coat.

“Do you even like me?”

Your head snaps up. “Of course I do.”

His next words are quieter. “I mean... do you like me? Not just the idea of being with someone. Not just what I represent, or how I don’t ask too much. Do you like me?”

You part your lips, the response on the tip of your tongue — except it isn’t. The panic hits before the words come, tightening your chest, making the air feel wrong in your lungs.

Theo closes his eyes like he already has the answer.

“I think I’ve been trying really hard not to admit how one-sided this feels,” he says. “But I can’t do that forever.”

You reach toward him — instinctively, helplessly. Your hand hovers mid-air.

“Listen, Theo, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says quickly. His face twists for a fraction of a second. “I know you didn’t. That’s the thing. You’re not cruel. You just... keep your distance. You never come to me for anything. Not once. I know you’re struggling with your classes. You get weird when someone mentions midterms. You disappear for days when grades drop, and when I ask how you’re doing, you say ‘fine’ like a robot. You don’t talk to me about any of these things.”

“I don’t need to dump that stuff on you.”

“It’s not dumping if I’m your boyfriend,” Theo says, caught between ache and frustration. “You don’t lean on me. You don’t share anything with me. I’m just... here. Being reminded I’m that insignificant and held at arm’s length every. Single. Day.”

Raf shifts again. There is a slowness to his breathing, a cadence like the tide. If he is listening, you cannot tell.

Your throat feels too tight. Theo sees it before you manage an answer.

He sighs. It sounds weary, like someone reaching the bottom stair.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Everything in you wants to refute it, deny him. But you know it wouldn't matter, because he isn't asking questions anymore; he's stating facts. And somehow, that makes everything worse.

You pick anxiously at the dead skin at your thumb's cuticles until the urge to apologize overwhelms everything else.

"I'm so—"

Theo raises his hand abruptly, stopping you short. "Don't. I don't need an apology."

A beat passes in uncomfortable silence. Raf grumbles, unhappy.

"Then what do you need?" You mumble under your breath.

"For you to see me as your person," Theo responds bluntly, staring intently down at your stunned features. "Or maybe just as someone who matters more than the stupid seal on your lap you're petting like a dog while having an important discussion."

You wince as if scalded, retracting your hands. "I don’t, I—!"

"Then look me in the fucking face when you speak to me," he barks harshly, scowl growing increasingly prominent. You've only seen Theo mad once or twice before, but he doesn't explode or break things. His anger is contained and icy cold instead. Raf doesn't like the way he's raising his voice at you, his huffing is getting more frequent now. "Or maybe stop sitting there like the victim and give me the courtesy of standing up and talking to me with actual intention rather than treat our relationship like some hobby you take on between finishing whatever homework is due? How would you feel if I treated you like a second choice friend whenever we meet up together? Think carefully."

There's something final about the way he ends the sentence, like shutting a door. Or snapping shut a notebook. Like wrapping up a case and moving on. For someone so impossibly empathic, so effortlessly considerate, you wonder if he finally reached the end of his rope. If you had worn him down, after all.

"I'm sorry," you find yourself saying anyway, hoping he would be kind enough to accept the olive branch.

But Theo only shakes his head slowly with lips thinned in repressed irritation. "Don't do that," he cuts you off curtly. "I told you I don't want apologies."

Something tenses in your gut. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe shame. It sours too quickly for you to sort it out.

Raf has been statue-rigid for a while now, his body coiled tight underneath your palm resting just over his ribcage — sensing the discordance, no doubt, alerted by the spike in tensions among the two of you.

"I think we need to rethink this whole thing," Theo says, looking directly at you with solemn, resolute conviction gleaming in his eyes. You understand what it means immediately. It isn't anger so much as sadness that draws itself around him, making his shoulders round, his mouth stern. He rubs a knuckle absently against his temple. "I seriously need some space. I can't keep putting in effort on my end while getting practically nothing back on yours. Frankly, it's been taxing and frustrating beyond belief."

"We could—" you pause, realizing there's absolutely nothing you can offer that would be viable. You don't have the same qualifications to make things work out as he did, nor can you convince him otherwise knowing this much of what you put him through. It wouldn't be fair to either of you. So all that's left for you to say is: "Is there anything I can do to fix this? Do you want me to..."

There is nothing more pathetic to finish your sentences with besides crying, begging and offering ultimatums — and none of those are appealing options.

"Look," Theo says, visibly restraining himself from pacing the way you've seen him do whenever frustrated with a difficult case to crack, and you feel horrible knowing full well that most of your interactions will likely leave him feeling this way. "I appreciate what we had over these past few months... It was good to spend time with you. But honestly, it'd just be healthier for us both if we put it on hold right now until you figure out what it is that you really want, and then I'll reopen negotiations."

Silence follows for a brief moment. Raf lets out a long whine, which causes you to snap out of the funk of despondency you momentarily sunk into, remembering he's still very much present, listening to everything, perhaps like a child overhearing his parents arguing.

"Okay," you croak, suddenly feeling unworthy of your boyfriend's presence. "Yeah, okay, I get it."

You don't even get the last part of your sentence out, which was thanking him for being patient with you before he's talking again.

"I'm gonna try to catch the last ferry," he tells you calmly despite the heartbreaking disappointment written all over his features. You nod along mechanically without meeting his searching stare, looking downwards in avoidance. There's a twinge of resentment at yourself for treating someone as wonderful as him this way, regardless of whether your actions were consciously intentional or not. "It's been nice here but the space thing, you know... Give my apologies to your parents and tell them it was a family emergency. I’ll talk to the others.”

All you can do is bob your head woodenly as an acknowledgment while keeping your line of sight trained elsewhere lest he notice the tears beginning to build up inside your lower eyelids. Everything feels wrong in this exact moment, like nothing you could've done or said will rectify anything.

His footsteps retreat away after a short silence, the distinct sound of the plastic handle on the cooler creaking softly under its increasing pressure, sand rustling audibly underneath.

Then you're alone — truly alone — for the first time in hours. The breeze kicks up, salty and cool off the water. You wait till the crunching pauses; until Theo reaches the place where footpath meets pavement, out of earshot. Until the world contracts around you. You let out a shaky sob, one fist digging into Raf's coat. A series of pitiful squeaks respond.

"I got dumped over a seal," you wheeze out shakily, fingers clenching deeper into damp fur.

You realize it's more than that, but the shock numbs everything else. You not mentioning Raf to Theo somehow snowballing into being perceived as emotionally distant and disengaged is such a surreal thought to contemplate that it takes awhile for your brain to catch up.

Your stomach knots so tight that you bend double, forehead dropping against your knuckles. Raf brings his nose to rest at your temple. Wet heat slides along your cheekbone, snuffles once, then again, the edge of his whiskers twitching against your temple like he’s thinking hard. He lets out a chuff, a ridiculous, gravelly little exhale that vibrates against your skin. You don’t know if he’s annoyed, apologizing, or just reacting to the taste of your tears.

You sniff. Wipe your face with the back of your wrist. “You’re really a homewrecker.”

He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest.

“Don’t sass me,” you whisper.

But the way he edges in closer, until your whole side is engulfed in damp fur and quiet warmth, makes your throat seize. You shut your eyes. Let your fingers dig into the pelt at his shoulder, where his scar discolors the fur. Your grip trembles.

“But I really didn’t think he’d leave,” you say, barely audible.

Raf’s head nudges under your chin, blunt and persistent, until you have no choice but to raise your face again. He’s looking up at you with that same familiar gravity behind his eyes that always made you feel seen. Not observed. Seen.

And it unnerves you a little.

“I didn’t think you’d come back either,” you admit, voice cracking. “So I guess it’s somewhat of a law of equivalence.”

He presses his forehead to yours, gently, like something instinctive and unceremonious. You feel he’s not trying to comfort you so much as just… be there. And for a second, it really does feel like time folded back in on itself, and you’re seventeen again with sand in your socks and unburdened giddiness in your chest, laughing into his neck after some awful day at school like he was the only part of your world that made sense.

“I missed you a lot though, buddy,” you whisper. You’re not sure whether it’s a confession or an accusation. Maybe both. Underlying with the strange emptiness of what this separation means to you. The fact that you’re here with Raf right now means a lot more than Theo leaving you. And you’re not sure how to feel about that other than the fact that you must be a grade A douche.

Usually it’s a man that exhibits this behavior. You don’t know how to feel about that, either.

Raf noses your collarbone, then burrows closer with a dramatic grunt. Like he never left. Like this spot — your side, your lap, your shoulder — is still his, and he’s reclaiming it without apology.

You laugh, but it cracks open into something hoarse. Something wet. An egg dropping an embryo to the pan instead of yolk. You bury your face in his neck like it’s the only place left you can do that safely. He smells like salt and sand and the faintest undertone of seaweed, but his warmth remains unchanged.

You don’t know if you should be angry with him or grateful. He might’ve cost you your relationship. Or maybe he served you a lesson about one that was always a little too one-sided. You don’t know. You don’t know anything except that he’s here now, curled into your ribs like a message in a bottle finally finding its destination.

You sigh into him, your voice small. “You really couldn’t have picked yesterday to be emotionally available, huh?”

Raf whines softly. Rolls to his back and kicks his flippers like he’s throwing a tantrum. His belly’s damp and ridiculous and offered to you like a truce.

You let out a snort and swipe at your eyes.

“I can’t believe this is my life.”

You flop onto your back beside him as the tide kisses at your ankles again, more gentle now. As if the sea itself is easing back. Raf’s breathing slows, matching yours.

And in the quiet between waves, you think, not for the first time, not for the last, that maybe he came back because he knew this moment was coming. That maybe he knew you’d need him, right here, right now.

Some part of you says, Nah, he’s a homewrecker.

You graduate, and eventually end up right back on where you started with your shoulders braced like someone expecting to be hit.

You don’t join the cap throwing ceremony, or any other party with the excuse you unfortunately don’t have time for any of that. You get your diploma like it’s a shady deal in an alleyway and go your own way.

The thought of maybe — maybe — coming back home for the last time would feel like slipping into warm water is at the back of your mind — strange at first, but comforting once your body adjusts.

It doesn’t.

The sea greets you the same way it always has — without ceremony, without apology. Not like a mother welcoming her child, but like an old employer who never removed your name from the roster. You step off the boat with all your belongings, and the wind claps you on the back, and the salt is in your mouth before you even say “I’m home,” as if to tell you to get back to work.

That’s all there is to it. Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it.

The sea still smells the same — wet iron, salt, the distant sweetness of fish — but it doesn’t comfort you. It clings like dead weight you have to carry on your back, stains your clothes, settles in your hair, crusts behind your ears like it’s trying to remind you: you belong here. Like it never really let you go. Like you’re Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill as always, except you drag it around like a pet rock now, one that is visible to everyone. One everyone recognizes.

You’re the girl who left. The one who came back with nothing.

You wanted to leave, though. God, you had wanted out so badly.

So you picked something clean. Something quiet and shiny that didn’t come with fish guts and engine grease. Museum studies. Archival work. Something that would let you tell stories about the sea without having to live inside its salt-stung grip. Something you could point to and say: See? I made it out. I became someone else.

You imagined glass cases and curated lighting. Climate control and respectability. People in linen suits asking for your opinion on preservation techniques. You imagined being good at it. Sharp. Polished. Like you were a cultured socialite and your hands had never once smelled of fish and that white-collars didn’t look down at you as though you were a second-class citizen for it. You clung to that dream like it was a life raft. Like it would keep you from becoming Dad, Mom, your whole line of weary sea-anchored ghosts.

University didn’t spit you out so much as it starved you slowly.

You told yourself it would be delicate — artifacts and silk gloves, white walls and whispered, distinguished voices of explanation and storytelling. But you weren’t ready for how different it would feel to be constantly behind. Always catching up. You watched people glide through it all — the lectures, the essays, the study abroad placements — like they were born into it. You weren’t.

You didn’t speak the language. You wrote too plainly, too tangibly. You didn’t know how to dress your thoughts up in academic language or play the intellectual performance they all seemed to have memorized. You didn’t know how to use a theory as a shield or a weapon, didn’t know how to say absolutely nothing in five polished pages. Your sentences were called “too literal.” Your ideas “lacked depth.” You began second-guessing everything you wrote. Every time you turned in a paper, you waited for it to come back bleeding red, like a wound reopening.

You sat in the back and took notes while others quoted theorists by name, confident and smooth and laughing with professors after class like they were friends while you could curl into a shrimp trying to show respect to their profession. That’s what you were taught. You didn’t know you had to ‘befriend’ those professors to get to places. Didn’t even know it was an option in the first place.

You stayed up until your eyes burned. Took out loans that made your stomach twist. Lived on discount noodles and cold coffee while kids in pressed coats talked about internships their relatives arranged for them in cities lacquered with prestige — all colonnades, opera houses, and museums with wings named after patrons whose names you’d only ever seen etched in gold above arched doorways. They breezed into networking events while you stood near the drinks table, gripping your plastic cup and trying not to sweat through your only decent shirt.

You couldn’t afford the unpaid internship your program said was "essential." You tried. God, you tried. Sent emails. Wrote cover letters. Offered to do anything, even just data entry. But you weren’t the kind of student they wanted — no fancy last name, no family connections, no recommendations from tenured faculty who actually remembered your face. You weren’t someone they saw potential in. You were just... competent. Just fine.

You spent a whole semester trying to figure out your thesis — circling topics like a vulture over carrion. And per usual, everyone else seemed to already know what they were writing about, already had advisors clapping them on the back, already had titles that sounded like published books. You kept second-guessing yourself. Too narrow, too vague, too personal. Everything you proposed sounded childish out loud, stripped of the wonder you felt privately.

Eventually, you landed on something about regional maritime artifacts and their cultural displacement — a fancy way of saying: the things that reminded you of home, stolen and pinned to museum walls. You thought it might be enough.

It wasn't.

Your advisor called it "charming but unfocused." You rewrote it four times. Each time it became less yours. By the end, you barely recognized what you were arguing. It passed, technically. You walked the stage. But it didn’t feel like a win. It felt like crawling across the finish line on bloodied knees.

You went to info sessions and forced yourself to shake hands. You printed business cards and smiled until your jaw ached. You went to office hours and tried to form a rapport with professors who always seemed to be glancing past you. You sat in lobbies for interviews you never heard back from. You applied for conference scholarships and didn’t get them, starting to realize there were doors you simply weren’t meant to walk through.

Your professors were polite. Detached. "Consider a gap year," one of them suggested, when your final project fell short. Another one smiled and told you that museum work was competitive — very competitive — and that maybe you should consider broadening your horizons. Maybe try the local heritage angle. Maybe lean into your background.

You knew what that meant.

Not giving up that easily, you toured gallery basements and museum backrooms during student field trips — rooms lined with crates and relics you weren’t allowed to touch. You watched a conservator handle a centuries-old scroll with hands steadier than yours would ever be. Every inch of the job looked holy from the outside, like something sacred you might be allowed to enter if you studied hard enough. But behind the velvet ropes and institutional polish, you started to see the cracks.

There were whispered complaints about underfunding. Stories of interns made to catalog entire collections alone. Older curators who treated provenance like personal territory. You volunteered once at a small regional museum just to get experience and ended up cleaning display glass and scrubbing exhibit floors. You told yourself it still counted.

And then there were the interviews, where they asked if you'd be comfortable lifting crates, running fundraisers, handling social media, and managing guest tours — all for minimum wage. Positions with beautiful titles and nothing behind them. It started to feel like the job was less about protecting history and more about convincing donors to keep the lights on. The past, you learned, only matters if it’s profitable.

You applied anyway — less out of hope, more like inertia. You tweaked your resume. You Googled synonyms for "passionate" until the word meant nothing. One of them called you in for an interview. You didn’t get it. Another place called you back for a position that paid less than the ferry ever did. You didn’t get it either.

And then Dad fell. Blew out his knee. Couldn’t walk the dock anymore.

You came back because you were broke and tired and humiliated and out of reasons not to. You packed in the middle of the night. Left behind a box of books on your old desk. Deleted the job alerts from your inbox. Told yourself it would just be temporary.

Now you’re here, back in the same boots, walking the same boards, answering the same questions from the same kind of tourists. You’re twenty-something with a degree that means nothing here. A diploma that doesn’t fit in your coat pocket when you’re loading cargo. A piece of paper that couldn't save you. A history of unpaid internships you never got. Professors who’ll forget you in a semester.

The archipelago hadn’t changed. Same bleached dock planks. Same rust-ringed ladders. Same old ferry with its bucking engine and stubborn throttle. And you were the same, too. Worse, maybe. Just older. More tired. A degree heavier. A dream deader.

You don’t know what comes next. There is no next, not really. Just water and wind and the hollow thump of your boots on damp wood. You’re stuck.

And worse — you’re starting to wonder if maybe this is all you’ll ever be.

Not a tragedy. Just another quiet failure folded back into the landscape. The girl who once swore she’d vanish past the horizon, only to wash up years later just like one more piece of flotsam the sea decided to keep.

Slap the, “That’s all folks!” title card on it. Fade to black.

(Except, well. As far as Raf’s concerned, the main titles had only just begun.)