│summary・"Whispers of the Sea" breathes life into forgotten memories through wistful poems and hidden truths. Drawn to it's words, Rafe finds himself chasing echoes of a past he can’t fully recall. The anonymous blogger is the childhood friend forgotten in time. Rafe searches for the pieces of a forgotten puzzle, trying to make sense of the storm brewing in his mind, while his heart fills with the poems of the girl he once adored.
│pairing・Ex-childhoodfriend!Rafe Cameron x Poet/Blogger!Female oc/reader (Reader has a lastname)
│(first part) finished‼ not edited (soon)・graphics highly inspired by @zyafics
│ CHAPTERS. each page a heartbeat, each word a breath.
─chapter 1 ﹕"echoes of his ghost"
─chapter 2 ﹕"beginning of the chase"
─chapter 3 ﹕"do I ever cross your mind?"
─chapter 4 ﹕"If anyone could've saved me It would've been you"
─chapter 5 ﹕"you are the life I needed all along"
─chapter 6 ﹕"the mind is a puzzle"
─chapter 7 ﹕"I still see you"
─chapter 8 ﹕"somehow you got under my skin"
─chapter 9 ﹕"friends"
─chapter 10 ﹕"anyway, don't be a stranger"
─chapter 11 ﹕"at least i'm trying"
─chapter 12 ﹕"polaroid"
─chapter 13 ﹕"hopeless romantic"
─chapter 14 ﹕"come back, to me"
─chapter 15 ﹕"if you go then I'll never grow"
─chapter 16 ﹕"something more"
─chapter 17 ﹕"hurricane"
─chapter 18 ﹕"i should try not to miss anymore"
─chapter 19 ﹕"echoes of us"
─chapter 20﹕"best friends"
│ EXTRAS. fragments that still have meaning.
──── Rafe's "Whispers of the Sea" moodboard.
──── Arden's Girl "Whispers of the Sea" moodboard.
──── "Whispers of the Sea" playlist.
──── The Future.
│ TAGLIST. I don’t have an updates account, but you can follow me here and turn on notifications to know when I post a new part. You can also be added to the tag list, but you’ll need to interact with the post to stay on it!
She didn't know what to expect when sailing across the sea to marry a man she had never met before. Even though she was going in blind, she had hopes that her marriage would at least be bearable. Little did she know she would be marrying the hotheaded Aerion Bright-flame Targaryen. Marriage with him would be more than difficult, but she was determined to win him over.
I do not read the books. I am basing most of the fic off of own personal beliefs of his character, and what I have seen so far in the show. (i do a bit of research here and there though.)
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
Category: Aerion Targaryen x Female Reader || 18+ themes
Tags: No Use of Y/N, Not Canon Compliant, Possessive Behavior, Smut, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, fluff, Arranged Marriage, Misogyny, Aerion does not know how to love, semi-soft Aerion, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Pregnancy Childbirth, epilogue has major book spoilers (you can skip it!) ,epilogue explains the life of all of the characters all the way up to Robert's Rebellion.
summary: here comes the sun! no, he's not a beatle, but the ladies think he is just as hot as the sun itself! infamous kook Rafe Cameron makes his debut as the drummer of a rising rock band dedicated to keeping punk and grunge alive. he plays loud and hard, raw and reckless, with rock fans glorifying this newly unlocked rockstar-badboy to obsess over.
content: 2000s!rockstar!rafe au, short fic, very brief rock/metal bands reference (megadeth and queen mentioned)
The people cheered them on way before they stepped onto the small, rather claustrophobic stage inside the bar.
They were new, fresh, charming faces that were shooting their shot in the music industry, exactly what the people wanted. It might be small gigs they depend on for now, but everyone standing in the bar could tell they were face to face with the next big thing, rumor even has it that they already got signed under a successful record label, planning their first album release next month.
So really, this bar gig felt like charity from a band everyone knew was going to make it big in the mere future.
Yet through the vocalist's charismatic vocals, the bassist's quick fingers, and the guitarist's insane guitar solos, your eyes were set completely onto the drummer, sitting behind his drum set behind the other members as he banged away with an intense passion ignited in his eyes.
Your eyes couldn't help but flicker to his hair; messy, disheveled, and damp from sweat. Then to his hands, gripping the pair of drumsticks while also spinning and tossing them around in the air once in awhile. Then his lips, tongue darting out to wet his drying lip every now and then, his expression changing each time he changes the beat, while sometimes a devilish grin would appear on his lips.
The person beside you– a girl, was grinning from ear to ear. "Delicious, huh?" She nudged your shoulder, "Some press people already expect him to be the next eye candy in the rock world."
Her words piqued your interest, raising an eyebrow to her words. "Who is he?"
"Who is he?" She repeated, chuckling, "that, sweetie, is Rafe Cameron. Everyone's favorite new rockstar."
Rafe Cameron. You repeated the name quietly just to check how it'd sound with your voice and how it'd taste on your lips as it rolls off your tongue so smoothly, both your eyes flickering back up to him- only to find his eyes already glued onto you, even through the crowdedness of the audience, as if he could hear you calling his name in barely even a whisper.
The girl continued, "He's like if Nick Menza and Roger Taylor had a child; high-energy and powerful drumming, with that playful, cocky, yet charismatic attitude."
Then, a smirk. Cocky enough to make your heartbeat accelerate, and definitely flirty enough to wrap you completely around his calloused drummer fingers.
"Oh my god, I think he's looking at me! Isn't he?!" She shrieked, stepping in front of you and grinning "back" to the drummer, who had immediately turned his head away, his scoff that was directed to the girl's false confidence drowned away from all the instruments.
A sigh left your lips as you step aside to keep a nice view of the stage, rolling your eyes discreetly. "He so is."
The act of sarcasm from you, however, was not missed by Rafe's wandering eyes, amused by your subtle annoyance towards the girl who so randomly decided to involve you in her fangirling session. That cocky smirk returns onto his face, drumsticks twirled around his fingers as they finish a song.
"Hey, Top..."
He called out to his bandmate and guitarist, Topper Thornton, while his eyes were still glued onto you as if he's afraid he'd lose sight once he glance away, drumstick pointing towards you briefly to redirect Topper's attention to you as well.
"Think you can get her backstage for me later on?"
content: angst-ish. a continuation of the office mini-series! clark is still yearning. christmas themes. reader is a little dense but makes up for it in their love for snoopy! toxic relationship themes also.
the office mini-series
“This was a bad idea.” Clark spoke through his teeth that nipped at his cuticle, “Terrible idea.” His sole focus was on the Daily Planet oval desk, blue eyes peered over his laptop screen at the empty desk chair. “This was a mistake.”
A coffee cup landed on the edge of his desk and Clark shook the anxious daze enough to tear his gaze away from your desk to see Jimmy Olsen standing next to him. His brow quirked in confusion, a cup of his own brew held close to his chest as he looked between Clark and the reception area.
Any ordinary day, it would be presumed that Clark Kent was ogling at you from afar. The surrounding areas of his desk drenched in the overspill of unrequited love and sickening yearning, that — sometimes — Jimmy and Lois had a mini, and silent, challenge that had them tossing sugar cubes into Clark’s coffee cup to see what number they could reach before he took an eventual sip; after he finished his hourly pining after you.
Lois was convinced Clark’s teeth would rot.
But, the massive clue that Clark wasn’t spending his time on the clock watching you, was that, one: you weren’t there. And, two: the medium sized present clumsily wrapped with a bow on your desk.
Jimmy looked back to his friend, “Gee. Don’t make it obvious, Smallville.”
Clark pushed at the frame of his glasses, “It’s not obvious. I was just—” Clark winced, “—Just passing comments on Secret Santa as a whole. Nothing to do with that.” He flippantly gestured to the present.
“What did you get her?”
“Something stupid.” Clark deflated in defeat.
The present itself was silly, juvenile in its humorous prod toward an insecurity that lay deep in the ribs of your boyfriend, Mike the Repairman. What was contained within the present was what Clark was truly biting the skin of his thumbnail off for.
He had heard some things. Good things through the office grapevine. How the office romance between the receptionist and meathead of a repairman was on a downward spiral. That, Mike the Meathead, was on his last toddler-esque tantrum over minor things and you, in all your brilliance, had gathered the courage to call it quits.
Cat Grant was great for gathering intel. Clark valued her as a co-worker.
So, Clark decided to bite the bullet. High-risk, high-reward and that man had been chomping at the bit to pour his heart out to you. Months of a dull ache that couldn’t be medicated in his heart, fleeting glances and shared, genuine, smiles. Clark Kent was prepared to take the fall.
That was…until the present he had placed on your desk was staring menacingly back at him.
Taunting him. Plucking at his insecurities.
“Good morning, my fellow Secret Service Santas.” Your voice carried through the fog of turmoil and Clark was quick to waft it away to stare at you. Clad in a DIY Christmas sweater, an obnoxious, glittery Christmas Tree hat sat atop of your head to match the ugly festivities of your sweater, you grinned as you dropped your personal belongings into your chair. You turned to Clark, Jimmy and Lois and raised your arms in a circular shape above your head, “Ta-Da!”
You were a Christmas wreath.
“That’s what you stayed up until 2am doing?” Lois chuckled and leant back in her chair.
You dropped your arms, “Yes. I thought it was fitting. I am the door to the Daily Planet bullpen, may as well look the part.”
“I like it.” Clark was quick to add.
Jimmy spoke quietly into his coffee mug, “Bet you’d like what’s inside too.”
Clark threw him a sharp look, grateful that you had busied yourself at your own desk enough to not hear such a passing comment. His attention turned back to you, his fingers idly tapping against the plastic arms of the desk chair that was too small for him. That all too familiar trepidation feeling creeped up the back of his neck, enough to make him project out of his chair and stumbled over to where you were situated.
His focus was set on the present. Wrapped in some festive Peanuts paper, it was state of the obvious that Clark Kent had pulled your name from the Secret Santa hat. He was always attempting to appeal to your little quirks, you were the sentimental kind, your love language was giving gifts; and even more so if you received a gift that was incredibly thoughtful in return.
The Peanuts wrapping paper was just the tip of the iceberg. Or the cherry on top.
Clark wasn’t so sure which way it would go.
He watched you over your desk, your head dipped below the top as you rustled around a plastic bag with one hand keeping your Christmas hat from falling off.
Clark cleared his throat and you shot up, relieved to see your friend rather than Perry White, or Steve Lombard.
“Oh—Hey!” You sounded chipper, “How are you?”
“On tenterhooks over this Secret Santa business.” Clark retorted and leant his arms on your desk, “I see your Santa has already delivered.”
You blinked at the gift, “So they did.” A smile broke out onto your face, “Snoopy wrapping paper. Huh. Not obvious in the slightest.”
Clark jutted his bottom lip out, “Lombard is an underdog. There’s thought behind that moustache.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
You let out an airy laugh, “Try a mirror, Captain Obvious.” Oh, the irony. “I’ll open it in a minute. I actually have something for you.” You dipped your hand into the plastic bag again.
“I think that’s cheating.”
You stuck your tongue out before you straightened back up to showcase a pair of Christmas pudding glasses. They looked cheap, the red glitter clung to the crevices of your fingertips.
The initial reaction Clark had was visceral, brows knitted, mouth formed in a shape of minor disgust at the tacky item pinched between your fingers. And then, then he saw your face and the realisation dawned on him.
“I can’t wear those.” Clark vocalised gently.
“Why not?”
Clark said your name sternly before he added, “I don’t think I want to.”
“Jimmy has a matching pair.” You pulled out the second lot of Christmas pud glasses, “Come on. You guys will look so cute.”
“Cute isn’t a word I’d use to describe that.”
You calculated your next words. “You can’t take the glasses off for a couple of minutes? Just for a group photo?”
“Then how would I see?”
“Hm.” You eyed him up carefully, “Suit yourself, Ba humbug. I hope your Secret Santa sneaks in some coal into your present.”
It took a minuscule frown on your face to stick a firework up Clark’s backside. He plucked the glasses from your grasp, and loitered around your desk enough to see the mischievous glint in your eyes as you began tapping away at your keyboard.
“You owe me.” Clark tucked them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
You didn’t spare a glance, “My life, pudding.”
Clark returned to his desk promptly, quick to rummage in his drawers for some tape and then headed to the bathroom for some privacy.
Knees almost at his chest, Clark sat in the one cubicle in the men’s toilet and took off his glasses. The Christmas pud ones you had gifted him were pulled out, his hands making quick work to snap the arms of the glasses off, popping the plastic lenses out from the frames, so he could perform a precise DIY surgery that was a little Frankenstein-esque.
Tape wrapped around the two glasses to form them as one, Clark inspected his handiwork before placing them back on his face to remain under disguise.
He stepped out of the bathroom, head on a swivel, cheeks pink with a flush of well-earned embarrassment from how ridiculous he looked with fragments of a festive novelty strapped to his glasses, and, the sudden realisation that if you asked him to jump…he’d ask how high.
His desk now his refuge, Clark settled in his office nook, minimising how often he turned to talk to his colleagues to avoid a finger point and laugh situation.
It was only when he caught your eye from across the room that the creep of bashfulness spread across his chest like wildfire. Clark went considerably goopy at the sight of you, face bright with a — in Clark’s opinion — priceless smile that cracked his heart wide open. He watched as your two thumbs raised in approval whilst your lips mouthed the words: So cute!
Yeah. Clark didn’t care what anyone else had to say now.
Sat atop of cloud nine, Clark couldn’t prevent the shit-eating grin on his face. It was the type that hurt his cheeks, the cheeks that were luminous pink from a subtle compliment. But, it was from you.
And, he’d take every crumb he could.
You then spent the next hour distracted, ID cards scanned through with a polite smile dependent on the recipient, emails to compile and send off to the correct departments about maintaining location of their IDs as you cannot possibly slot their faces through the machine to clock their identity in for the hours they intend to work to get paid.
The Not-So-Secret-Santa gift stood proudly unopened in the same spot as Clark had placed it in the early hours of the morning. Tormenting your poor friend on the multiple occasions that he lifted his attention from his workload and onto you. His nails were chewed to stubs, his DIY glasses long forgotten that Perry White had to call them alarmingly unsettling for Clark to remember he had even taped the stupid Christmas pudding glasses to his own to appease you.
So, Clark put his best foot forward. Snagged an extra fifteen minute break — a secret kept for him — and took a leisurely stroll back over to your desk to try encourage the whole concept of Secret Santa to one of the few Christmas enthusiasts in the Daily Planet office.
You saw him approach, “Hello, again.” You halted the clacking of your keyboard and pressed the heel of your palm to your chin, “You are in my top five today.”
“For?”
“For bringing your ID.” You explained, “And for that glasses situation you’ve got going on.”
Clark nodded, mulling over his choice of words, knuckles wrapped against the top of the desk, “Are you—” He titled his head to the gift, “—Are you going to open that?”
“You seem keen to know what’s inside.” In fact, he was keen for you to see what was within…inside. You quirked a brow, “Are you fessing up, Kent?”
“I’m just curious.” Clark laughed out loud and held his hands up in surrender. He thrived in the chemistry between you two.
You hummed, “Alright. Since you’ve been so curiously patient. And, you’re in my top five colleagues today. I’ll open it.”
With little performance, you dragged the weighty present over the desk and into your lap with a minor reaction of confusion as to what item could possibly weigh heavier than a doorstop and feel moderately fragile if dropped. Fingers clutched around the shape of it to take a guess, you grinned when Clark’s features deadpanned at your intentional apprehension to opening the gift.
You gave in and began to open it.
It looked as if you were attempting to preserve the wrapping paper, a hunch told those who knew you on a more personal level, that you were going to take it home and tuck it away in a metal biscuit tin that doubled as a sentimental keepsake tin. Some of them had seen the contents of that tin, things that an average person would lack the thought of keeping for memories.
Successful in minimal damage to the paper, you began to laugh at the gift. A Superman cookie jar. The ceramic version of the hero held the cookie jar in a headlock, showcasing his large bicep through his recognisable red and blue suit.
Clark took a deep inhale, his expression remained neutral, not because he wanted to give away that he pulled your name from the hat; but to conceal the worry for the ambitious act he had stuffed into the cookie jar.
“I love it.” You turned to inspect the jar in your hands. Clark failed to withhold the ooey-gooey adoration on his face at the way your eyes shone at the silly present. You shook your head, “I’ll have to hide it from Mike, whenever he appears.”
The subtlety of your words had Clark delayed in his reaction. He let out a breathy laugh and nodded, then the smile slowly wiped from his face as he watched you.
His throat bobbed. Perhaps he misheard.
“Mike?” Clark asked, “The Repairman?”
You nodded slowly, “My boyfriend, yes.”
Oh! Oh no.
“Right. So, you—you two are together?” Clark was stumbling over his words, sounding dense at what seemed to be public information. He cleared his throat, “I meant, you two are doing OK?”
“I mean…” You paused. A tell in your expression was the wrinkle between your brow, and a pull of your earlobe, told Clark Kent that you weren’t confident in your words. You continued, “Yeah. We ironed some things out. Mike had some qualms about me, and I’m going to try to fix them. As anyone would. Right?”
“Absolutely.” Clark nodded too enthusiastically.
“He wants me to have less of a twinkle in my eye over Superman.” You waved off such a bizarre insecurity, “Was…was there something that should’ve happened?”
Clark was hoping for a restraining order.
Instead, he pulled the clueless card and shook his head. As much as the desire to have you ate away at his organs, you were his friend, and he wanted your shoulders to be less tense than they were at the thought that people were talking behind your back about your tumultuous relationship.
And, they were.
With your shoulders dropped, thumbs twiddled, Clark offered an empathetic smile and then felt the sudden dread turn his mouth dry. With the updated news that your relationship was — albeit — on the rocks, but still very much continuing, Clark’s little bravery hidden away in the cookie jar needed to be extracted and shredded if entirely possible.
Without you noticing.
And, Clark would be damned if he would be labelled an attempted home-wrecker if you, or worse, Mike, found what was within the jar.
As if his prayers had been answered, Perry White called your name with enough authority that had you jump in your chair, body turned to address your superior and his request. It was a little too coincidental, but the Editor-in-Chief was far from meddling in little office theatrics unless it earned him money. Either way, Clark took the opportunity when he could.
With you easily distracted, Clark extended his arm over the desktop and opened the lid of the jar. His fingers squashed, he gritted his teeth as he fished out a wad of letters all held together in a rubber band.
Choosing to end his additional fifteen minute break early, Clark trudged back to his desk, his top drawer yanked open as he dropped the letters with less grace than intended.
“What was that?” Lois, ever observant, pointed to Clark’s drawer.
Clark rounded his shoulders, “Nothing important.” His focus went to his laptop screen as he mumbled to himself, “Anymore.”
│summary・Between incomplete memories and truths that weigh heavy, closeness begins to hurt again. They both discover that some connections never truly disappear, and that maybe, even if only for a moment, they deserve the chance to start over… even if it doesn’t end the way they hope.
│pairing・Rafe Cameron x Poet!Female oc/reader
│not finished‼・part 2 of: Whispers Of The Sea.
│ CHAPTERS. each photo a heartbeat, each kiss a breath.
(loading...)
│ TAGLIST. I don’t have an updates account, but you can follow me here and turn on notifications to know when I post a new part. You can also be added to the tag list, but you’ll need to interact with the post to stay on it!
about female oc/reader: I’d like to clarify why the fics I write aren’t character x oc, and it’s because, in my mind (my mind ok), I need a name to attach to the so-called reader. that doesn’t mean I actually use it, because I don’t, and I don’t like using it when I’m writing for multiple people. but not giving a "character" a name feels a bit empty to me.
I just wanted to make it clear that just because you see oc-reader x character, it doesn’t mean it’s a personal oc! It’s more like a small warning that maybe, JUST MAYBE, a name or something similar might appear to refer to the "fem!character". at least on my fics.
please don’t hate me, I SWEAR it’s not something that happens often, but lately I’ve seen some posts about how people tag character x reader and it ends up being character x oc, and I thought… hmm, maybe it’s not very clear what’s going on in my fics. or something like that. I hope this makes sense!!!!!
jj maybank x fem!reader | non-canon | NOT proofread | this is the most I've toyed with 'supernatural' aus, let me know what you think! | inspo and a 5sos fic I read YEARS ago which I can't find :(
content warnings: mentions of weed; s*xual content (f receiving; p in v); brief allusions to abuse.
word count: 18k.
blurb: JJ wakes up in an alternative universe. The most striking difference in this parallel world? You.
image coming soon - it's nearly 2am and I just wanted to post
*~*~*~*~*~*
JJ wakes with a groan. He’s laying on his side, his face is squished into the pillow, dried drool stuck to his chin. As he comes out of a deep sleep, it almost feels like he’s waking up from death. He forces his eyes open just to close them a moment later. It’s bright - too bright. His head has a dull ache akin to the type he gets when he’s had too much to drink the night before. JJ considers falling back asleep. He dips his face into the duvet. It smells good: fresh linen and the faint scent of florals. He feels his lips twitch with a smile.
“Wake up, sleeping beauty.”
JJ’s eyes fly open.
The bed sinks as someone - a woman, judging by the voice - sits beside JJ. He feels the phantom of a hand atop of the duvet, resting on his side.
“JJ, seriously - get up. John B’s gonna be here in, like, thirty-minutes.”
The stranger stands up again. The floorboards creak as they make their way around the room. JJ listens to every minor movement like he’s tracking a predator. His heart rate doubles; his palms begin to sweat. Who the fuck is that? The footsteps stop. JJ slowly lets his eyes drift around his surroundings and he takes them in. It’s eerily unfamiliar. Not his room, or any in the Chateau, or any of his usual sneaky-link’s places. The duck-egg blue walls are foreign, as are the prints framed and hung on the far side of the room. He doesn’t recognise the chest of drawers or the floor length mirror. There’s a gaping window which is to thank for the onslaught of sunlight. Standing just to the right of it, in front of a desk, is a woman.
You’re staring intently at your reflection - a precarious mirror balanced atop of the desk - as you guide earrings into your piercings. JJ studies your face in the glass. You’re pretty, strikingly so, in a way that would have JJ stumbling over his first few words if he were to approach you. And it seems that he must have. I mean, how else could he explain winding up in a random woman’s bedroom, in her bed no less, dressed in nothing but–
JJ’s eyes nearly fall out of his sockets. His hand quickly dips further into the duvet and he frantically feels his body for - nothing. Pressing his eyes shut, JJ lets out a pained exhale. Good fucking job, JJ. It’s pretty concerning to him that he managed to get so shit-faced last night that he not only forgot sleeping with someone, but also forgot the whole night in its entirety. Come to think, JJ can’t think of anything from the last twenty-four hours. It’s like he has amnesia; his mind a blank slate, wiped clean. There’s no distinct detail, no remarkable incident, and yet JJ here JJ is, somehow. In a random woman’s bed after seemingly sleeping with her, without any recollection of sharing a single word with her.
“You okay?”
JJ opens his eyes. He looks back to the mirror. You’re looking at him through the reflection, concerned.
“Yeah, uh…” JJ clears his throat; it feels horrifically dry. “Sorry but, uh…Did we, uh, sleep together last night?”
Your brows furrow, seemingly confused, and JJ’s question hangs in the air for a long moment. But then, a sly smile slowly unfurls on your face. You leisurely make your way back over to the bed. JJ’s eyes watch you like you’re as unpredictable as a stray cat in the street: non-threatening at first glance, but potentially rabid. His breath freezes when you duck down beside his side of the bed, your face level with his. There’s a twinkle in your eye. In a sultry voice, you ask, “are you wanting a play by play or something?”
“Um…”
“Wanna create it, huh?” you tease. JJ stares at you, wide eyed.
“Uh, not right now,” he croaks.
You're confused again, the suaveness lost in a flash, smile fading. “Are you feeling a’right? You’re acting kinda weird.” JJ tries not to flinch when you lift a hand. Your palm is warm and soft as you press it against JJ’s forehead. You hum. “You don’t feel like you’ve got a fever.”
For someone who only met JJ last night, you sure seem quite fucking comfortable. “Probably just had too much to drink last night,” JJ replies. Your hand slowly retracts from JJ’s forehead.
“Baby…you didn’t have anything to drink last night. You’re the one who drove us back. Remember?”
Baby. Way, way too comfortable.
“Okay, you’re starting to freak me out,” you say, not waiting for his reply. Standing straight once more, you cross the room to collect your phone from atop of the chest of drawers tucked in the corner. “I’m calling Becky and taking the day off work.”
“No!” JJ blurts. Your head whips around to him. He clears his throat and tries to sound nonchalant as he says, “no, you don’t gotta do that. You go to work. S’all good.”
“You sure?” you check, eyeing him warily. JJ presses his lips together in a tight smile which he prays is convincing and nods. You reluctantly return your phone to your jean pocket. “A’right. If you’re sure…”
JJ feels like he might throw up. He’s never felt so disoriented before. It’s as if dogs are walking on two legs instead of four; as if cars are driving backwards instead of forwards. There’s something wrong. JJ feels it in his gut, how things aren’t quite right. It isn’t just the way that he can’t rewind the last twenty-four hours or recall meeting with you, let alone sleeping with you. It’s the casual way you said ‘baby’. It’s the way you look at him, the way one might regard a lifelong friend.
You’re crazy.
It’s a shame, JJ thinks, because you’re pretty cute.
“I gotta use the bathroom,” he announces. “Where is it?”
You stare at JJ as if he’s grown an extra head. Slowly, you point with a single finger to the bedroom door. “Down the hall? Where’s it’s always been?”
JJ nods stiffly. He goes to shove the duvet off before remembering his nakedness. Whilst quite confident in his physicality usually, JJ feels inclined to set some boundaries with you. You know, considering it seems likely that you’re psychotic. He stumbles awkwardly through his words. “Can you, uh…Y’know? D’you mind?”
“You want me to leave?” you ask. You sound taken by surprise. Rude.
“If that’s a’right with you,” he replies. Your frown deepens.
“Uh…Sure?”
You take your time walking to the bedroom door. It’s as if you’re waiting for JJ to drop a punchline and tell you to stay. It’s as if he’s the one acting weird in this situation. Before you leave the room, you meet JJ’s eyes once more. If these were different circumstances, JJ might be flattered by the concern in your gaze. “There’s some Advil in the cabinet. I bought some more the other day. Might help if you’re feelin’ kinda woozy.”
“Great. Yeah, no, that’s great. Thanks.” JJ forces out a smile that feels tight like botox. You give a slow nod before finally leaving him alone, and the moment the door closes, JJ lets out a sigh of relief.
“A’right. Lets get my stuff and get the fuck outta here,” he mumbles to himself. He shoves the duvet off his lap and glances around the room. He finds his clothes folded neatly on a beanbag chair. Again, it would be sweet if you weren’t a nutjob. He hurries back into his attire, glancing at the door every other second to check you’re not coming back. The minute he’s decent, JJ is cracking open the door and glancing into the hallway. You’re not lingering with a needle to sedate him, so it seems the coast is clear. JJ doesn’t let the door slam as he sneaks out the bedroom. It takes three tries before he finds the correct door to the bathroom down the hall. His fingers are quick to fasten the lock. As it clicks into place, JJ feels his heart-rate calm just slightly. He dips his head to lean it against the wood. God, wait until John B hears about this.
As JJ uses the toilet, he takes in the decor of the pocket-sized bathroom. There’s a peach coloured shower curtain and fuzzy white towels which hang from hooks. An impressive collection of skincare products is stacked beside an almost overflowing make-up bag atop of a hip-height cabinet. Boring things like shower gel and hair wash and bubble bath decorate the window ledge, bathing in the sunlight through the frosted glass. He flushes the toilet and heads to the sink to wash his hands. The Advil seems like a good call with the headache that has already set in from how hard JJ’s brain is working to make sense of everything. It feels like he’s been staring at an optical illusion, trying to make some semblance of sense from it. He opens the mirror cabinet and quickly finds the Advil, shucking two from the bottle. But as he goes to lift his hand to his mouth, he freezes, mid-air. If being drugged was how he got here, maybe it’s best not to accept more medication from a complete stranger? He glances warily at the bathroom door before easing the tablets back into the bottle. As he returns it quietly to the shelf, soon remembering his bizarre situation, his eyes take pause on a second orange bottle.
His body goes ice cold.
His fingers tremble as he retracts it from the shelf, as if bringing the label closer to his eyes might make the words change. Adderall - take two a day for ADHD. JJ Maybank.
“What the fuck…” JJ breathes. He returns it to the shelf to retract another medication bottle, addressed to him. Then his eyes dart to the shelf below. A familiar black toiletries bag greets him. It’s JJ’s. He can tell by the bleach stain he got on it seven years ago that he couldn’t wash out no matter what he tried. It was his shaving kit. The same one he had since he was thirteen. The only decent birthday present his dad ever gave him. He unzips it and investigates the contents. Everything is there. As if items are manifesting into existence before his very eyes, JJ then notices the bottle of his go-to cologne. Then his hair gel. His deodorant.
All of JJ’s belongings are in this bathroom cupboard. In your house.
JJ loses his balance. He stumbles to the side and catches himself on the cabinet behind him, sending skincare products flying and clattering loudly onto the floor.
“JJ! You okay?” you call from the other room.
“M’fine!” JJ shouts back. His eyes are wide, gaping holes in his head, and his chest is rising and falling with what might soon become a panic attack. His world is spinning too fast, everything around him a discombobulating medley. He wonders if this is what it feels like to have a stroke. Something washes over him - perhaps adrenaline - and a voice speaks loud and clear in his head, giving him direction for the first time since he woke up.
Get out.
JJ scrambles to unlock the door. He trips into the hallway, his hand flying out to meet the wall. He tries one of the doors and it opens into an airing cupboard. He slams it shut. He’s hyperventilating, freaking out, spiralling. JJ tries another door and is met with an office, but before he can slam it shut and try the next, he hears your approaching footsteps. You call out his name again and a new wave of panic floods over him like an ice bath. He scrambles into the room and closes the door behind him. He’s manic as he looks around the room for some way to escape. A window. Yes. He wastes no time in trying it but it’s locked. He tries to force the latch, tries to haul it from the sill, grunting, but it won’t budge. His panic is rising and rising like a tsunami, building with no end in sight. And then, JJ’s eyes land on a framed photograph on the desk. He slowly releases his death grip on the window pane to instead reach for the picture. It feels like slow motion, as if he’s moving through time made of tar, as he brings the picture over to his line of sight the same way he did the medication bottles.
The pictures is of you and JJ. You’re both younger, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Your braces glint in the flash of the camera as you beam at it, smiling. Your arm is hooked around JJ’s middle and his is safe and snug over your shoulder, holding you close and tight to him as if he might want to weld you against his side. He’s smiling too. His happiness is nearly contagious; it leaks through the glass and the wood and the ink. That isn’t the thing that catches him, though. No, instead it’s the writing at the bottom of the photograph. His writing. JJ could recognise his hand anywhere: scrawling and untamed, barely legible. The red marker is unmistakable, however, in how it reads. Fishes forever - all yours, JJ. The love heart beside it feels like an electric shock. JJ’s mouth gapes in horror.
This was real.
“JJ, what the hell is–” you stop, mid sentence, after flying into the office. Your hand is tightly clutching the door handle. JJ steadily turns his head to look at you. His heart rate weirdly settles at the sight of your face. His lungs let him take in a full breath of air. Worry consumes you. “Oh my God, are you okay?”
You hurry across the room and take JJ’s face in your hands. It’s delicate and doting, your touch gentle like he’s something breakable, and JJ stares down at you with parted lips. He takes in shaky breaths, trying to catch his spinning mind, reeling from the realisation that all of this - somehow, someway - was real.
“Did you have another one?”
JJ frowns slightly, confused.
“A panic attack, I mean?” you clarify.
JJ swallows. He feels himself nod. You melt with sympathy, sighing, and wrap an arm around his shoulder, place a hand in his hair, and guide him into an embrace.
“What a start to the day, huh?” you whisper.
JJ doesn’t know why but he begins to curl his arms around your middle. He lets himself ease a little in your hold, resting his forehead on your shoulder. You smell like jasmine and vanilla. His eyes press closed. Like a drug, it calms him, grounds him. Makes him feel sane almost, like a nostalgic smell from a childhood blanket might.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay home from work? You’re really worrying me, baby.”
The endearing term doesn’t send JJ into a blind panic this time. Instead, it sticks its claws into his heart and tugs on the strings. It’s a new feeling, but not necessarily an unwelcome one.
“No, no, that’s a’right,” JJ eventually tells you. He eases away from your hold and catches your eyes. The look that you greet him with is foreign to him but he can read it like it’s his mother tongue. You’re looking at him with nothing but pure, unapologetic love. “I’ll be a’right. Just need’t get some sleep, I think.”
You sigh, clearly reluctant to let the matter go, but relent nonetheless. “Look, John B’ll be here in, like, ten minutes. Becky’s gonna be here in less than five and I gotta finish getting ready but please promise me you’ll call if something else happens, m’kay? I’m worried about you.”
JJ nods. “I promise.”
“Okay,” you whisper. You smile, small and sweet like a chocolate chip, and press a kiss to the corner of his lips. JJ’s thoughts vanish at the feel of your mouth on his even though it’s barely more than a peck. His body can’t seem to decide how to feel about it: panicked, elated, relaxed, unmoored…
As you return to the bedroom to finish getting ready for work, JJ busies himself with ransacking the office. He studies every picture and photograph on the bookshelves and walls as if searching for clues. A world builds around them, filling in the blanks of his mind. Every image of himself feels like JJ’s looking at a simulation. It’s him, distinct and unmistakable, and yet, JJ cannot place a single memory. It’s as good as AI: his face is a mere placeholder for something that was never his. But the more JJ delves into the world that he seemingly shares with you, the more he wishes it was. There’s group pictures of the two of you with the Pogues: on the boat, at the chateau, in the marsh and the sea. They pass through the years of fifteen to twenty-two - present day. There’s many of you and JJ. A graduation, the two of you grinning, hand in hand, dressed in robes, standing before your high school. A date night, you perched pretty on the pull-out sofa of the chateau, a buffet of finger foods and snacks surrounding you on a shabby blanket. A few candids here and there, some taken by the Pogues, some taken by you or JJ. The one of you two kissing, oblivious to the world around you, has JJ’s attention for the longest. In your hand is a fish cuddly, bright blue. This fish thing seems to be a recurring theme. He’d noticed it in a particularly cringy photo from when the two of you were around sixteen, faces puckered like sea creatures, cross eyed and dilated pupils.
Your knuckles wrap against the office door and JJ looks over. You look beautiful: hair tamed and tidy, jewellery twinkling in the daylight, lips glossy as you speak. “Becky’s out front. One last offer?”
“You go,” JJ says. He means it this time, and not just because he plans on fleeing the second you’re gone. He’s sucked in - too curious to turn back. “I’ll be good, don’t worry.”
“M’kay,” you mumble. A car honking has you rolling your eyes. JJ wants to smile at the sight. You have a spunk to you that he imagines an older woman would describe as moxy or gumption. “A’right that’s me.”
You disappear from sight, footsteps tapping down the hall to what JJ assumes must be the front door. He hears it creak on its hinges as you pull it open. Then, before you leave, you call out, “bye! Love you!”, and JJ’s left alone in silence.
The two words rattle around his brain. It clearly isn’t the first time you’ve said it to him. It was as flippant as bidding him good day or night. Casual. Routine. JJ’s eyes stare into the hallway as if stuck in a trance. The words give way for a question that fizzles into his consciousness.
Where the hell am I?
*~*~*~*~*~*
JJ sits in a ransacked mess of diaries and photo albums and bills and letters. He spends every second of every minute reading, obsessing, over every syllable and sentence. Things as mundane as credit card statements and mortgage agreements slot themselves in his mind as high importance. His neurons fawn over every snippet of information. The pictures burn themselves into his hippocampus. Birthday cards and Christmas cards and Valentine’s day cards exchanged between you and JJ. His handwriting mocks him. Your words read empty like glancing over a play’s script. There’s no connection between this JJ and the loving messages you leave. The teasing ones. The sappy ones. JJ isn’t sure why it upsets him so much.
He nearly leaps out of his skin when the front door opens, down the hall.
“JJ? Ready to head?”
John B.
Thank God.
JJ scrambles to his feet, kicking envelopes and pages of paper out of the way. He ventures out of the office and into the hall. John B’s familiar face makes JJ want to weep for joy. At least something was normal. In fact, John B looks so regular - so typically himself - that it confuses JJ more. It turns him suspicious.
None of this makes any sense. JJ suddenly finds it laughable how quickly convinced he was that he had been transported into another version of himself, living in a parallel universe, as if his life was some superhero movie. Whilst you were new, and this house was new, and this collection of property and items were new, John B wasn’t…
“Yo, good to go?” John B asks JJ.
JJ cracks up. He laughs and laughs, and shakes his head, and tries to catch his breath. John B’s face twists with confusion, mildly concerned at JJ’s abrupt hysterics.
“You good man?” he tentatively asks.
“Oh, this is gold. Seriously man, I’m impressed,” JJ admits, clutching his stomach. John B’s acting is top tier: he looks utterly dumbfounded. “I mean, that’s some hella good acting. Where’d you find her? Castle Hill? Seriously, chick deserves an Oscar for that performance.”
“I–” John B’s words die on his tongue. He swallows, brows furrowed tightly together. “Are you good? Is everything okay? Did something happen to Y/N?”
But JJ refuses to hear the genuine concern in John B’s voice. Instead, he takes a small lap of the hall. “I mean, this must’ve taken you hours. I don’t know how you knocked me out good enough to get all this sorted. Seriously - I’m just impressed.”
At the silence that follows, JJ finally takes pause. Hands in his short pockets, he looks up and takes in John B’s expression. His lifelong friend looks like he’s two sentences away from calling the nearest insane asylum. JJ’s smile falters. Something runs through him: sharp and cold. Dread. It pools like cement in his stomach, weighing him down and welding him into the ground.
“Are you pranking me right now?” John B asks. Then, as if he’s the one trying to make sense of this whole ordeal, he quirks a brow, and tries a smile. “Is this like some prank you and Y/N set up?”
JJ swallows. The dread doubles.
“Yeah man,” JJ chuckles. His voice is so dry. “Yeah man, I’m just messing with you.”
John B doesn’t seem to believe him at first. JJ lamely clicks his fingers at him, half-assedly flashing finger guns. “Had you going, huh?”
The relief that washes over John B is so visible, JJ knows this is real. John B crosses the room and slaps him on the shoulder in a brotherly fashion. “Don’t do that to me man, had me worried for a second there.”
“Nah, you know me. Just love joshing ya,” JJ murmurs weakly.
“Come on, man. We gotta get to the shop,” John B says, heading out the door. He shakes his head seemingly to himself, mumbling something under breath about ‘fucking JJ man’, and leaves JJ standing in the house alone. JJ takes another glance at the framed photos on the walls of the hall. You and him. Smiling, intertwined fingers, sunglasses on faces. He grabs what he assumes to be his house keys from a trinket dish by the door and follows after his friend, locking up behind him. Here’s to hoping JJ is a better actor than he thought, because he’s going to need to put on one hell of a show.
When JJ walks into the surf shop, it feels as though he’s stepped into a daydream. It’s exactly how he pictured it. Every detail is as if he spoke it into existence from nights spent smoking joints with John B, back in his universe. Hand painted wooden signs nailed to the walls, with puns and faux directions to beaches and surf breaks. Fishing and surfing gear, intermixed with snacks and drinks and supplies. Tourist information. Local produce and advertisements.
He strangely falls into his role rather fast. Picks up the strings quickly and puppets himself as he didn’t wake up in a different man’s bed this morning. Maybe it’s because the job is so natural for him, it doesn’t take much acting. Maybe he imagined doing it so much when he struggled to fall asleep, it functioned as training. John B gets over the strange interaction at the start of the day rather quickly. That to say, JJ is aware of the occasional glances he gets from his friend and now business partner. The twinge of concern that tipped his brow and lip when JJ would ask where something was kept, or how to use the till, or what time they close up shop. Things JJ should know but didn’t. At five-fifteen, John B dropped JJ back home. The lights were on in the kitchen; JJ could tell through the windows. You were home.
It smells like your perfume when JJ walks through the door. Melodically humming under breath, JJ can wanders to the kitchen to find you ransacking various cupboards.
“Hey.”
You startle, the tune halting to a stop on your tongue. Looking over your shoulder, you smile at him. Dazzling like morning sun. JJ imagines the smile he musters back makes it seem as though he’s constipated.
“How was work?” you ask him, taking one last glance into the cupboard before closing. You lean against the counter and look at him.
“A’right,” JJ shrugs.
“Have any more panic attacks?”
JJ shakes his head. You hum, smiling gently at him, as if not fully believing him, and nod. A piece of paper is plucked from your short pocket.
“Wanna help with the grocery shop?”
JJ feels as though he’s in a ‘choose your own adventure’ game. The decision he makes here might affect his later life: what would your JJ say?
“Sure,” he shrugs, noncommittal. You smile brightly and something tells him he chose correctly. He can practically see the text box appear at the bottom of the screen: she’ll remember that you said this.
“Come on then, fishy,” you chime, breezing past him. You capture his wrist with two fingers and pull him behind you with little effort. JJ follows like a shadow as you both load up into the car.
JJ has never known someone with such intense road rage before. For somebody who seems like they might make a good disciple for a mindfulness cult, you certainly have a way with the word ‘cunt’. As you boy-racer your way to the stores, JJ looks down at the shopping list you passed to him when the two of you got in the car. It’s typical: milk, eggs, bread, fruit.
“Anything you wanna add?” you ask him, having seen him reading the list.
“No, no. Sounds good,” JJ murmurs. He folds it up and pockets it. The car is quiet. The radio plays faintly in the background; the sound of tyres on tarmac is monotonous; something in the glove box rattles whenever you drive over a pothole. JJ wants to make conversation with you. He wants to say something, anything, but he has no idea how. You’re a stranger to him. A memory that he doesn’t recognise but should. He isn’t sure how to strike up casual small talk when he’s missed the entirety of your relationship. He’s not sure what casual small talk even looks like with you. His palms sweat as JJ stresses over every conversation starter, and before he can decide on one, you’re parking the car outside the store.
It’s wordless as you both climb out the car, retrieve a shopping cart and venture into the wonderland of Walmart. JJ walks along beside you, his hands shoved in his trouser pockets, and peruses the aisles that the two of you walk up and down, up and down.
“Oh, we need pasta,” you say, turning left. JJ follows like an obedient dog. You squat down and hum, studying the different shapes. Picking out two packets, you turn and hold them up to him. “Which ones?”
JJ’s eyes flit from the Fuselli to the Penne. “I don’t mind,” he shrugs.
You hum again and study them some more. “I think the Fusilli. Penne looks too much like dicks.”
JJ snorts. You look up at him and smile. Then, you drop the pasta into the cart and continue the shopping trip. As you walk, you reel off ideas for what to have for dinner next week. JJ nods along and chimes in whenever needed, and it starts to feel normal. Domestic, but not in a boring way. Comfortable as you discuss whether fish pie or fried fish would be better for Wednesday night. The chips and snacks section has JJ’s attention. He stops short and grabs a bag of chips off the shelf. You wait for him. But as he brings the bag to the cart, you're frowning, mildly confused.
“What? You don’t like them?” he asks.
You eye him. “No, you don’t like them. You said they tasted like pig testies.”
JJ feels like he’s been caught in the act. It interrupts his flow, like a tree trunk having fallen in a river. Just as he was starting to feel somewhat normal in this abnormal reality, he slips, and the facade fails. You give him that look. The look that tells JJ that you know something is amiss, but aren’t quite sure what. Hell, JJ isn’t sure either. But he’s been good at lying his whole life. He had to be, to survive. So, JJ shrugs and drops them in the cart. “I guess I wanna try them again.”
“You wanna try pig testies again?”
“Yeah, well…Why not?”
You chuckle and shake your head. “A’right.”
The rest of the trip goes without a hitch. The two of you load up the bags, stock up the car, unpack everything into the cupboards and fridge and freezer. By the time everything’s tidied off, and JJ’s wolfed down some leftovers that were about to go bad, it’s apparently bedtime. At least, it seems to be, according to you.
You seem to like routine. JJ isn’t sure how he notices this with only one day of knowing you, but there’s something ritualistic in your evening routine that is a nod to your type-A tendencies. The cup of chamomile tea an hour before climbing under the covers. The skin care regimen takes nearly ten minutes. The taking of various pills and medicines, checking afterwards whether JJ had taken his too. Finally, after all of this has passed, with minty fresh breath, you sit beside JJ in bed. As you relax against the pillows and bury your nose in your book, JJ sits like a stuffed bear. He can’t soften his spine, refuses to sink into the mattress and comforter. His body is on high alert. Sure, you haven’t been overtly threatening to JJ today - quite the opposite, in fact - but that doesn’t shake the fact that you’re new. Enough new, confusing things have been curveballed at JJ today that sleep seems unlikely.
Dog-earing the page of your book, you sigh as you tuck it into the drawer of your bedside table. A finger hovers over the switch of your lamp. You glance back at JJ over your shoulder.
“Lights out?”
“Mhm,” he nods, stiff as a board. You click it off and the room becomes bathed in darkness. Bedsheets ruffle as you shuffle down to cosy up into the covers, and JJ assumes he should do the same. He lies on his back, arms by his side, staring at the ceiling, lifeless like a corpse. He blinks up, wide eyed, heart hammering like he’s sharing a bed with a woman for the first time. It summersaults when you plant a hand on his chest, atop of his t-shirt.
“Night, baby.”
“G’night,” JJ rasps. You hum, leave your hand on his chest, and JJ wastes his time awake listening to how your breathing slowly evens out into slow, deep inhales and exhales, like the susurrus of waves. The flicker of tranquility it brings him is shattered as you mumble, half-asleep, into your pillow: “love you.”
JJ doesn’t sleep for three hours. When the clock reads one in the morning, JJ slips out of the bed and bunks down on the sofa in the living room. He finally gets some rest.
*~*~*~*~*~*
You don’t wake JJ in the morning. Sunshine glaring in his face brings him to. On the counter of the kitchen is a note written on the back of yesterday’s shopping list.
At work until 3. Call if you need anything. Love you.
JJ toys with the corner of the paper until it wears off. He huffs out a breath, then eats, showers and dresses. John B reminded him (mildly concerned as he had been when answering most of JJ’s “obvious” questions) that he wasn’t on shift today. That left a day free to play detective. JJ turned the house upside down. Letters and photographs weren’t enough. He needed evidence. Something to confirm that this wasn’t just words that you’ve said and written which have generated this world. Instead, JJ finds boxes of his old clothes in the shed out back. He finds suitcases in the attic of his old toys from childhood. He finds his bike and a collection of tools. He finds report cards, shirts, trousers, boxers, hell, even his favourite brand of fucking condoms. Everything. All of it. The only thing that your JJ and JJ differed on were tastes in food. Holy shit, did this guy have bad taste. JJ cringed at the sight of the snacks in the cupboards before settling on a protein bar to quiet his grumbling stomach.
After exhausting himself with household rummaging, JJ ventured out into Kildare. He hadn’t properly seen it yesterday. Instead, he passed by houses and stores in cars. He takes his time. Surveys the land like an inspector, as if checking if the cracks in the pavement are the same, or the wonky street sign from when Landon Peters crashed his car after a darty. A few stores are the same. A few are different. A few missing. JJ finds his feet guiding him to the Heyward’s residence. As he gets nearer with every step, a small ball of dread builds and builds in his stomach like a snowball tumbling down a mountain edge. What if Pope and Kie aren’t here? What if Pope and Kie don’t exist? What if he never sees them again?
The Heyward emblem on the side of the building quells his anxiety for a beat. More so when Mr and Mrs Heyward step out of the store together into the daylight glow, carrying brown paper bags filled with groceries that JJ assumes are for delivery on Figure Eight. It’s nice to see some things stay the same. He makes his way over. Before JJ can overthink whether Mr Hayward knows him, the older man catches the blonde-haired boy’s eyes and smiles. A friendly, familiar smile.
“Hey! What’re you doing out this end, kid?”
“Hey Mr H,” JJ grins. He gladly accepts the embrace. He smells like soap and sweat and faintly of seafood. “Pope around?”
“Pope? He ain’t back for another month.”
“Month?” JJ frowns, stepping away. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his shorts and rocks on his heels. “From where?”
Mr Heyward looks puzzled. He hands Mrs Heyward another bag and she loads it into the bed of the truck. “From college, boy. Boston ain’t a short journey from here, y’know?”
Boston?
“Oh, right,” JJ chuckles, hoping he plays it well. “Must’ve got my dates muddled.”
“How’s the wife?” Heyward asks. JJ’s blood runs cold. It’s an expression, JJ, get a grip, he berates himself.
“She’s good. Yeah, she’s good,” JJ says, hoping his mild look of terror isn’t obvious.
“Always working that one, huh?”
“Always,” JJ bobs his head. He juts his chin back to the road. “Anyway, I should head out. I’m running errands, s’all. I’ll see y’all later.”
“See ya, JJ.”
“Take care!” Mrs Hayward calls, waving farewell. JJ waves back and ventures back onto the road. Soothed by the fact that the Heywards and John B were the same as always, he decides The Wreck is the next best place to stop. It isn’t as though the Carreras are JJ’s biggest fan either way, so if they’re hostile, at least it’s consistent. So long as Kie is still, well, Kie - that’s all JJ is worried about.
He finds her scrubbing down a table. There’s a bandana in her hair, keeping it off her face, and she’s got that same disgruntled resting expression as she works. She’s just as he remembered her to be. It’s quiet at The Wreck. A family dines in the corner - the mother trying to wrangle her restless child - and a couple sits outside on the jetty, talking over pancakes.
“Kie! Make sure that table for eight is all set up, yeah?”
“Yeah mom!” Kiara calls back to the disembodied voice that emerged from the kitchen. Then, ehr eyes glance over to the doorway, landing on JJ. She smiles and JJ takes a small victory breath of relief. “Hey!”
She quickly makes her over, tossing an arm around him in a hug. The spray bottle of disinfectant bangs softly against his back.
“What’re you doing here? You and Y/N stop by for food?” she asks. JJ watches as she stores the spray and cloth in the waitress station.
“Oh, uh, no, just me. She’s working,” he says.
“I miss that girl. Feels like it’s been ages since we hung out,” Kiara hums. She begins to push together some tables and JJ decides to help. “The manager at the smoothie shop still giving her grief?”
“Not really sure,” JJ mumbles. Kie pauses, looking up at him. Her brows twitch.
“Everything good, dude? You seem kinda off.”
“I’m fine,” JJ replies. He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders back, as if to drive home the point. Nodding, he adds, “all good here.”
“You guys have a fight?” she asks, frowning.
“No,” JJ answers, tone slightly quipped. It’s driving him crazy. He does his best to act nonchalant, to act normal, and all people want to talk about is this random girl that he’s tied to and grill him on why he isn’t being “himself”.
Kiara seems to take the hint. She finishes organising the tables so they can seat the party of eight arriving later. JJ sighs and calms himself a beat. The bell dings from the kitchen: order up. Kiara goes to pass him but stops, planting a hand reassuringly on his shoulder. JJ meets her gaze.
“Look, if you need someone to talk to, I’m here, man. Always.”
“Thanks Kie,” he says, genuine. Kiara smiles at him and he manages one back, and then she disappears into the kitchen to gather up the order for the chaotic family of four. JJ takes one last glance around the restaurant before leaving. He makes note of the time on the old-timey analog clock hung on the wall, amongst old fishing gear displayed in wooden cases, and sepia prints of Kildare over the years. Three-twenty-five. You’ll be home, then. He wonders what your JJ feels when he thinks that. Does a thrill run through him, like an electric current from his head to toe? Does it calm him, like the notion of wrapping yourself up in a warm blanket after a long day in the rain? Maybe he’s indifferent. You might be as familiar to him as butter on bread or ice in water. He’s certain, however, that he doesn’t feel this sense of panic at the thought of you pottering around your house. That the mere idea of you kissing him ‘hello’ doesn’t fill your JJ with dread, like it does for him.
He takes the long way back. Drags out every step, every moment. But eventually, inevitably, he returns to the house. You’re cooking. Hair pulled back, strands falling out, an oversized t-shirt hanging over your frame that JJ quickly identifies as his. The radio is on. It’s static-like as it plays sixties music. You hum along, hips swaying slightly, as you stir something in the pot. It smells like it might be gumbo.
“Hey,” JJ says.
“Hey,” you reply, not bothering to look up from the pot. JJ watches as you lift a wooden spoon. “Come taste this. You think it’s missing something?”
JJ makes his way over until he’s standing by your side. You glance up at him, a small smile pretty on your lips, and JJ takes the spoon. He sips the broth: small bubbles sit atop of the surface from the heat. It’s hot - nearly scorches his tongue - but he swallows. Savours the flavours that fizzle on his tongue: tangy, spicy, warming. You watch him as he thinks.
“Maybe some more garlic?”
“Garlic! Of course!” you gasp, as if you had a ‘eureka’ moment. JJ bites back his laugh as you head to the fridge, retrieving a clove of garlic. He leans against the counter by the sink and watches your cut and dice the clove. The air is sticky with heat and food. It clings to his skin, shining it with sweat. You’re much less threatening like this - lost in your own world - similar to how you were when the two of you went shopping together. He takes a quiet moment to admire you. The curve of your body. The melodic tunefulness of your voice as you sing along to a song underbreath. The stretch of your legs disappearing beneath the hem of the t-shirt. A tattoo peeks out from the sleeve of your right arm. It looks like a flower of some sort. JJ cocks his head and narrows his eyes, trying to make it out. But then you’re turning, looking over your shoulder, and JJ’s eyes dart up as if he’s been caught red handed. “Oh, I forgot to say,” you start, seemingly unaware of his quiet gaze, “your dad called. Said he wants you to stop by sometime soon.”
“My dad?” JJ checks. You hum, nod, turn back to the board to carry it over to the pot of gumbo.
“Mhm. Said something about giving you those ‘things’ you were asking after. Seemed pretty secretive,” you reply. JJ thinks you might be joking from your tone but he can’t be sure. He grabs a piece of onion skin from the countertop and busies his hands with it, ripping small pieces off.
“He’s probably lying. Just an excuse to get money off me again or something.” The onion peel falls to the floor as he rips it in two. You’re frowning when you look at him, face the picture of concern.
“Did something happen between the two of you? You guys get in a fight or somethin’?”
JJ laughs, hard and sharp, like glass shattering. You flinch, alarmed. The look on your face has his humour dying fast, a candle flame blown out by a gust of wind. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? I thought you guys were cool now.”
Cool? Not a chance in hell.
But JJ didn’t have the energy to try and explain that to you. Instead, he shrugged, closing down. “Whatever. I’ll go see him tonight.”
“Want me to come with?” you ask, chirpy as always.
“S’cool, I’ll go alone,” JJ mumbles.
“You sure? I haven’t seen them–”
“--Christ sake, can I get a minute alone?” JJ snaps.
You recoil. Physically recoil. The shock quickly fades into sadness, and maybe even a furl of anger as your lips slowly close, and frown at the edges. You ease the spoon back into the pot, shutting off the heat. JJ can feel the apology creeping up his throat but he swallows it down. You’re aggravating. Irritatingly bright and smiley and nice. Acting like you know him. Like you know what’s best for him. But he can see the pain sink into your skin and something in his gut tells him he’s done wrong. Your eyes press shut and you seem to gather yourself with a slow, measured breath in.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” you say in an even, steady tone. You meet his eyes. Shake your head once. “Don’t talk to me like that, JJ.”
He’s left alone in the kitchen. JJ’s not sure if he’s ever felt so cruel before. He doesn’t eat, instead leaving the house for a long, drawn out walk. By the time he’s back, it’s pitch black outside, and all the lights in the house are turned off. There’s a bowl of leftover food waiting for him, kept warm with tinfoil over the top. He leaves it be and saddles up on the couch, falling asleep soon after.
*~*~*~*~*~*
JJ finds ways to make himself scarce during the day. He does so for a week. Busies himself at work, picking up extra shifts, taking long walks, driving around on his bike until daylight turns to night, and hangs out with John B or Kiara at the docks. The routine you stick to at night is easy to crack. JJ times his return after you’ve already bathed, and by the time he’s washed up, you’re in bed, reading. Sometimes the light’s already out. For a few nights, you tried to initiate sex. Your hands would wander up, under his shirt, tracing the freckles on his skin. He’d shiver and edge away until your hand retracted, falling limp by your face. Not tonight, he’d mumble, I’m too tired. After four nights, you stopped trying. Even then, JJ couldn’t find it in him to share the bed with you. It felt wrong, intrusive. He couldn’t rest knowing you were right there beside him. He’d always creep off to the sofa. He knew you’d notice but you never mentioned it. Never even asked.
On the eighth day in this alternate reality, JJ goes surfing. You’re working a shift at the smoothie shop. John B and JJ have a day off from the shop. The breaks are stunning. It’s as if the waves are works of art, tugging him in, luring him under. He spends hours on the surface, balancing his weight on the board as if he were born on one. He eats at The Wreck, chatting with Kiara. He buys a seltzer on the walk home, enjoying the sun and his own company, and yet…something feels wrong. Empty, maybe. Like there’s a piece of him that’s unfulfilled. It doesn’t make sense. His routine is hardly different to that of his old life, before he ended up here, and yet he feels dissatisfied. As if he’s overturned every rock except for one. Gathered every jewel except for the largest pendant. He tries to place his finger on it as he walks back to the house, as the sun takes on a delicious orange glow to warn of its setting.
The front door isn’t fully closed as JJ walks up the porch steps. He frowns, pushes gently against the wood, and something tells him to remain unannounced. Voices drift from the living room towards the doorway and he lingers. Listens.
“-a completely different person,” you say. Your voice sounds thick with tears, stuffy from a blocked noise. You sniffle. It sounds as though you’re crying as you take a shaky breath. “I just don’t know what to do.”
“It’ll be a’right,” John B murmurs. JJ studies the wooden slats of the flooring. You try to catch your breath, stifling your sobs.
“I thought we were doing okay, y’know? Like I thought we were gonna get married, and s-start a family, and do all the things we talked about. But now…It’s like he’s pulling away from me, and I don’t even know what I did.”
The sob that racks up your throat has JJ wincing. His eyes press shut and he swallows the bile itching at his throat. Somehow, in the disorientation of trying to navigate a whole new life, he forgot about you despite being surrounded by your presence nearly every moment of every day. He didn’t consider you. Never considered how this must be for you. You and JJ had been together for years, in this reality. Of course you could tell something was wrong with him. It wasn’t as though he was hiding it well. JJ had spent so much of his life alone that he never thought about what this might be like for you - a careless slip of selfishness.
“Hey, c’mere,” John B says softly. JJ hears a rustle of clothing and he assumes John B must be holding you, soothing you through the turmoil that you’d been unwillingly tossed into. “This is JJ we’re talking about. You and JJ. Everybody knows the two of you are meant to be together. He’s probably just stuck in his head about something. He’ll come around. He always does.”
There’s no response for a while. Your crying has quieted, the occasional sniff and cough, and JJ wonders whether to make his presence known. But something tells him the conversation isn’t quite over, and he’s reluctant to face the image of you in pain because of him. When you speak, your voice is so fragile it’s made of cobwebs.
“But John B…What if he doesn’t?”
JJ can’t take it. He pointedly clicks the door shut. Takes two heavy footsteps in the hallway. Musters up the actor inside of him to sound nonchalant as he calls, “I’m back!”
“Shit,” you hiss. There’s some kind of movement in the living room and JJ drags out the motions of toeing off his shoes and shrugging off his jacket. He drops his keys in the trinket bowl by the doorway and makes his way into the main space. John B sits on the couch. You’re stood at the kitchen sink, back to JJ, pretending to wash dishes.
“Hey man,” JJ says, nodding to John B.
“Hey,” John B replies. He’s not hiding it well, the conversation the two of you just shared. There’s an unease in his eyes, a furrow to his forehead. JJ tries to look past it. “Wanted to talk to you about shift patterns next week. You cool working Wednesday and Thursday? We’ll take Saturday together. Tuesday and Sunday off, and I’ll cover Monday and Friday.”
“Works for me,” JJ nods. He looks over to the kitchen once more. You wipe your hands on a kitchen towel and, as if sensing his stare, glance over your shoulder. Your cheeks are damp, the stickiness of dried tears reflecting in the dwindling sunlight. It’s obvious you’ve been crying. And yet, the smile you place on your lips is frighteningly convincing. JJ smiles at you, wondering if it looks as apologetic as he feels. “Hey. How was work?”
“It was good,” you say, voice a little wobbly. “Pretty quiet.”
“That’s good,” JJ hums. John B clears his throat and rises from the couch, drawing both of your attention.
“I better head out. Sarah’s cooking sticky ribs for dinner.”
“Ooh, sounds tasty,” you hum. “Tell her hi from me.”
“Course,” John B says, smiling warmly at you. There’s something in the look he sends you, a message almost of ‘I’m here if you need anything’. He turns to JJ and places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing in a brotherly fashion. The way he looks at him is weighted. Telling JJ that he knows something isn’t quite right, but doesn’t know how to bring it up. JJ gives a subtle nod and tries a smile. Then John B is down the hall and out the door.
It’s silent in the house. You’re meddling with the kitchen towel between your hands, watching the movement with an absent mind. JJ’s never been good at knowing what to say to you. He feels it more now than ever. Rolling his lips together, he contemplates sentences, weighs them in his head before deciding.
“You wanna order in tonight?”
Your head darts up. “Oh…Not tonight.”
JJ nods, pursing his lips.
“I might take a bath,” you tell him. “Feeling kinda unwell.”
“Need some medicine? Soup?”
Your lips twitch with a smile. It’s small, but it’s something. “No, that’s alright. Thank you.”
JJ gives another nod. You tuck the kitchen towel on the hook and make your way past him, into the bathroom. A few seconds later, JJ hears the sound of running water, and the door clicks closed. He sighs and runs a hand over his face, through his hair. It feels like a mess he doesn’t know how to fix. Other JJ would. He’d know your tells and your remedies. The things to say to wind up in your good books, to help you feel listened to and seen, to make you feel better. But to this JJ, you were little more than a stranger. Like a character from a book or a movie, he only knew of you in the small snapshots he’d found in journals and pictures and fleeting moments spend in your company. Company that he found himself avoiding.
He decides to visit his dad’s house. Afterall, you’d mentioned that his dad wanted to see him. He felt shitty enough - an altercation with his father couldn’t make things much worse, could they. JJ leaves the house without a word to you.
JJ hardly recognises his father’s house. It’s the same yellow coloured boarding; the same white window frames and doors; the same greyish-brown netting surrounding the porch. And yet, it’s as if new life has been breathed into it. As if the wood is glowing beneath the paint and the wire net free from dirt and grime. Perhaps it’s the lack of clutter around it. There’s a garden to the left, growing what looks to be vegetables and herbs. There’s the usual fishing gear stacked inside the porch but it’s tidy, not tossed to the side half-drunk when a semi-successful day on the boat has concluded. There’s a wind chime painted with magenta and turquoise twinkling pretty in the evening breeze as JJ makes his way up the stairs. He raps his knuckles on the door.
Things were undoubtedly different in this reality compared to his own. JJ was curious whether this went for his father too, and if so, in what way. He pushed the small bubble of hope deep into the pit of his stomach until it dissolved in his acid. He wouldn’t let himself imagine it might be for the better. Too many times had his dad let him down, he wasn’t about to kid himself again.
Footsteps creak from inside the house and JJ’s heart hiccups, pushing into his throat. Please don’t be drunk, he silently begs, just as he hears the lock turning. The door opens and JJ comes face to face with someone who looks the spitting image of his dad. But this dad is clean shaven, fresh faced, bright eyed, and smiling.
“Hey, boy,” Luke grins, voice raspy. He tugs JJ into a hug of sorts; one he doesn’t reciprocate. Luke doesn’t seem to notice nor care. He wanders into the house, expecting JJ to follow, and he does eventually. It smells delicious: deep fried chicken and fries. The house becomes no more familiar as JJ walks through it. The kitchen is spotless aside from a small, contained pile of dishes near the sink. A bowl full of fresh fruit sits out enticingly, not a single spore of mould in sight. The walls are covered in paintings and pictures: many of JJ grinning over the years, holding either a fishing rod or surfboard or sitting atop of his dirt bike. He lingers by one of you and him, his arm hooked over your shoulder, the two of you grinning brightly into the camera lens. You’re both standing in front of the house you currently reside in, a set of keys dangling proudly from your finger, and JJ assumes it must have been right after you bought it.
“You want a beer, boy?”
“Uh, sure,” JJ mumbles, finally drawing his eyes away from the picture frame. His dad pulls the fridge open and retrieves two bottles, passing one over. “Thanks.”
“Come on, let’s sit out back,” Luke says, leading them through the rest of the house and onto the back porch. JJ freezes in the doorway as his eyes land on another person. His stomach flips and falls through the floor. The universe laughs at the new curveball it’s tossed in JJ’s direction.
“Hiya honey!” JJ’s mom smiles. She pats the spot next to her on the outdoor sofa. “Was hoping you were gonna come by tonight.”
JJ’s body works on auto-pilot as he sinks into the seat beside his mother. He can’t stop staring at her - aware that he must look half-crazed. She’s just as he remembered her to be from foggy childhood memories. Her crows feet sprouting by her eyes as she smiles, nose wrinkling and dimples shining. Her blonde hair falls in soft ringlets around her face, half-pulled back in a low ponytail. She’s wearing a denim shirt that’s a little oversized on her frame and JJ wonders if it’s his father’s, and that in itself sends him spiralling because how is he in a version of his life where his mom wears his dad’s clothes. His staring must cause concern because her smile fades into a frown, brows tugging together.
“You alright, JJ? You’ve got white as a ghost,” she fusses, planting a hand to his forehead in the way you had done not so long ago. JJ half expects hi fingers to go through her wrist like she’s a phantom as he eases her hand away from his head.
“I’m a’right,” he murmurs.
“Your girl was telling us you haven’t been yourself lately. She’s worried you’re coming down with a flu of some kind,” Luke says from the armchair to the right. JJ sighs, closing his eyes, and rocking his head back in his seat.
“No, I’m fine. She just worries, s’all.”
“Hm.” Despite not hearing his mom’s voice in years, JJ knows that tone. He cracks open an eye. She’s studying him, pursed lips. “You two having a fight or something?”
“Something…” JJ eventually replies.
“I remember when me and your dad would fight. God, it’s like there weren’t enough words to say - ain’t that right, Luke?”
“Damn straight,” he grunted, tipping his bottle in some mock cheers.
“But y’know what we found worked?” JJ shakes his head. His mom smiles reassuringly. “We talked. Talked and talked, and listened to each other, and figured it all out. All the things we’d been speaking but not really saying, y’know?”
JJ nods dumbly, not quite sure if he does understand, but glad to take the advice nonetheless. She glances back at Luke - a Luke that seemingly didn’t know a life of addiction and crime - and pokes her tongue out at him playfully as he jests something, and JJ feels the world melt away as he looks at his mom. Suddenly, he throws his arms around her. She gasps, taken aback, but soon returns the hug. She smells like her dresses used to before JJ’s dad threw them all out: her perfume no longer a pungent reminder of something lost.
“I missed you mama,” JJ says thickly into her shoulder.
“Darlin’, I’m ever so worried about you,” she croons into his ear. JJ feels like a kid again, cuddled in her lap after a nightmare, listening to her sing nursery rhymes until his eyes would begin to sag once more. She runs a hand over his t-shirt clad back. “I’m sure whatever the two of you have been squabbling over will be mealworms by next week, my darlin’ boy.”
JJ clenches his eyes shut.
“Maybe this ain’t the best timing to give you these things you asked for then, huh?” Luke speaks up. JJ reluctantly untethers from his mom (making a point to keep his hand safely secured between her two palms) and looks to his dad. In his fingers is a small black box which looks to be made out of felt or velvet. When Luke cracks it open, a ring glimmers in the dying daylight. It’s an impressive diamond jewel, reflecting rainbows on the ceiling of the porch. JJ’s throat goes dry.
An engagement ring. Those ‘things’ you were asking after. Seemed pretty secretive. Your words echo around JJ’s head.
Luke must sense that JJ is about a half minute from spiraling into the underworld. He clicks the box closed and slips it into his short pockets. “How ‘bout I keep safe keeping of it for now, hm?”
JJ gives a stiff nod. His mom squeezes his hand, gathering his attention once more. “Let’s talk about something else, hm? How’s work been?”
The conversation comes easy in a way JJ has never known before. He hangs on his mother’s every word as if listening to the word of God from the heaven’s above. The way she laughs, the stories and yarns she spins, the small jesting jokes between her and Luke. His father is just as bewitching. He’s happy - truly happy - and he keeps reminiscing about the past in a way that doesn’t make JJ feel like he wasted his father’s time. They both steer clear of topics relating to you and JJ is grateful to have a moment free of worrying about what the hell he’s going to do if he’s stuck in this reality forever. But conversation can only last so long. It grows darker and darker. JJ finally finds the courage to face going back to the house.
He hugs his mom and dad for longer than necessary and he knows it must worry them. They share a look when he lingers in the doorway. Before he departs, his mom takes him by the shoulder.
“Just talk to her, yeah? The two of y’all will figure it out. You always do,” she reassures. JJ takes a small breath and nods, smiling.
“Thanks mom.”
“Get home safe,” she tells him, voice a little sterner, and presses a kiss goodbye to his cheek. With that, JJ heads out the door, down the porch steps, and back towards the house with a newfound purpose: to have a conversation with you.
*~*~*~*~*~*
The porch is a nice reprieve from JJ’s inner spiral. He sits on the swing that you so often favour and smokes a joint. It doesn’t clear his thoughts very much but it does calm him down. Slows his mind, eases his chest. He watches and sits and thinks in circles about this strange life he’s fallen into until it becomes dark. It’s unclear how long he’s been sitting there - maybe an hour - but eventually he knows he can’t delay facing you any longer.
He takes his time doing his evening routine. Brushes his teeth with precision. Washes his face twice. JJ stares himself down in the mirror as water drips down his cheeks. Grow a Goddamn backbone, he thinks to himself. She needs you. Swallowing his fear, he grabs a towel and rubs it over his face, drying his skin. The light clicks off as JJ leaves the bathroom.
You’re lying on your side in bed, facing the wall. The sheets are tucked up to your shoulders. You look cosy; safe in your cocoon of sheets. JJ shrugs off his shorts, leaving on his boxers and shirt, and flips off the light. You don’t say a word and yet somehow, JJ knows you’re awake. He slips under the sheets and hesitates for only a handful of seconds, before looping an arm over your waist. He spoons you in a loose grip, swallowing away the twinge of guilt, feeling as though he’s holding someone else’s girl. You turn in his hold, now face to face, heads on pillows. JJ can’t see you well in the darkness of the room. Your eyes shine, staring at him, studying him, perhaps looking for evidence to confirm that JJ wasn’t your JJ. Then, they press shut. JJ’s surprised how much it bothers him. It feels as though you’ve closed a door in his face: blocked him out. There’s a shaky intake of breath. It comes out of your nose slowly.
“I need to ask this cause…Cause I’ll be an idiot if I don’t. And I hate that I’m about to - God, you have no idea how much I hate it - but…But I have to,” you murmur. JJ’s brows tug together; he’s unsure if he missed the beginning of the sentence. Your eyes open into his. You look terrified. Sick, even. There’s a curl to your lips that makes JJ worry that you might begin to cry. But you don’t. Instead, your voice is eerily steady as you ask him: “is there someone else?”
“No.”
It’s an easy answer. Simple. Truthful.
You seem to recognise this. You exhale a breath that you seem to have been holding in for weeks. Eyes slipping shut, you take a moment.
“God, you must hate me for even asking,” you whisper. JJ shakes his head. His hand instinctively reaches out for yours under the sheets; he captures your fingers. The touch has you opening your eyes, a flicker of surprise dashing across your beautiful features.
“I don’t hate you for asking,” JJ tells you quietly. “I get why you did. If I were you - if I was in your shoes, I mean - I’d ask the same, probably.”
You stare at him for a long while. Shaking your head, you say into the night, “what happened, JJ? One day you were fine and the next…” You cut yourself off with a sigh. “It’s like you went somewhere.”
JJ swallows. His heart hiccups in his chest.
“You can tell me anything,” you suddenly say, as if sensing his anxiety. “Y’know that right? Anything at all. I mean, this is us. Y’know I’d never judge you.”
It’s terrifying, how easy you trust him, and how easy you expect him to trust you. It’s unnatural for JJ to open himself up to people. Flick open the cavity of his chest and allow you to take a peek. But something about you tells him it’s okay. That he can let some of the curtain fall. That it might even help.
“It’s gonna sound insane,” JJ whispers.
You shrug. “I like insane. Most things you tell me are insane.”
He gives a small laugh. It’s fleeting, short-lived. Your fingers squeeze his reassuringly. One of his legs slips between yours, as if his body is seeking you out, needing to be closer as if to ground him. He wonders if it was only his mind that came to this foreign world. Maybe his body remained at home, and this new body - other JJ’s body - knew you like muscle memory. Craved your company and closeness. Recognised your touch. He lets himself indulge. Sighs quietly at the feel of your foot swiping over his, capturing him in this strange embrace.
Looking at you is too much, so he closes his eyes as he admits, “the other week, I woke up in this bed, and I felt like I was in a different world.”
You don’t say a word.
“It was like I woke up in a dream. It was me, but it wasn’t me. Like I’ve possessed another person’s body. And I don’t…I don’t know how to get back.”
The silence stretches. JJ feels stifled by it. Suffocates in the deafening quiet. Then, bedsheets crinkle, and JJ nearly jumps at the sensation of your forehead pressing against his: warm skin resting atop his own.
“Thank you for telling me,” you whisper.
JJ suddenly wants to cry. Is this what it’s like for him? He thinks to himself. Can your JJ tell you anything, and you just accept it? Is it that easy for him? There’s a rush of something green in his stomach: jealous. It’s quick in its coming and going like a flickering bulb.
“I just need you to be patient whilst I figure this out,” JJ confesses to you, eyes still shut. You nod against him. “I promise I’ll figure it out, I just…I just need you to be patient.”
“Whatever you need,” you hum. Your hand sweeps over his face, cradling his cheek and jaw, and JJ finally musters up enough courage to open his eyes. You’re beautiful, glowing in the darkness, radiant in the barely-there moonlight. There’s so much love in your eyes, it’s petrifying. “You’re it for me, JJ. I’m not giving up on us easily. Gonna have to try harder than that.”
JJ isn’t sure why, but he leans into your touch. “It’s nothing you’ve done. I need you t’know that. Nothing you’ve done at all.”
You needed to hear that. A visible weight rolls off your shoulders from his words. He presses a kiss to the palm of your hand, tilting his head just slightly, and he realises that this might be the most intimate moment of his life. Raw. Vulnerable. Gentle.
“You’re perfect,” JJ tells you, and he means it.
Smiling softly, you lean forward and press a chaste kiss to his lips. It comes and goes too quickly for JJ to realise it’s happened. He wants you to do it again, but he doesn’t say. Doesn’t kiss you in return. He just lets himself lay in your hold, and you in his. His eyes slip shut and for the first time since he woke up in this parallel world, he feels relaxed.
“Get some sleep, baby,” you whisper. The pad of your thumb strokes dotingly over the apple of his cheek. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Thank God: it’s the last coherent thought JJ has before he drifts off to sleep.
*~*~*~*~*~*
JJ woke up the next morning safe and warm in bed. You talk in your sleep: murmur little half-phrases underbreath, nose scrunching from time to time as if the figments of your subconsciousness annoy you. He’s shameless as he watches you sleep. Eventually, you stir and your eyes blink open. The smile that greets him makes him melt into the sheets.
“Mornin’,” you mumble, snuggling deeper into the pillow.
“Mornin’.”
“You had coffee yet?”
“Waitin’ for you to wake-up,” he half-lies. He was mostly distracted by watching you. “You at work today?”
“Yup,” you yawn, rolling onto your back. You stretch your arms above your head and point your toes, like a cat waking from a nap. The limbs flop back onto the duvet with a soft thud. “Long one too.”
“I’m at the shop with John B,” JJ tells you. “But I’ll be back for dinner.”
“Good,” you hum. The sheets are pushed off you and you sit up in bed and stretch once more, your arm flexing and bending above your head. The hem of your shirt rides up and JJ can’t help but be fascinated by the ripple of your muscles under skin as you wake up your body. Then, you’re heading to the door, calling something about making coffee. JJ takes a moment to gather himself before following.
As if the conversation last night hit reset, everything felt smoother. JJ stepped into a morning routine that felt almost familiar. Perhaps it was the ease with which you moved through the steps: coffee, bathroom, breakfast, dress…JJ overhears your singing through the bathroom door as he finished his smoothie bowl. He listens to the rumblings of a podcast from the bedroom whilst he undergoes his morning routine in the bathroom. At least all the products are the same. His fingers hover at the medicine bottles in the cupboard. Well, might as well play the part, he thinks to himself, and with a committal shrug, he tosses the prescribed pills back.
Work is second-nature now. John B’s looks of concerns are less so, then JJ knows his worry remains. He imagines the conversation shared with you that JJ overheard had done little to ease his best friend’s mind. JJ wants to acknowledge it and tell John B how he’d cleared the air with you, but that would give away at his eavesdropping, and so he let the matter go. Instead, he made passing comments about how he was planning to have dinner with you tonight. ‘Spend some quality time together, y’know?’ he’d said oh-so-casually. The tension that visibly slipped from John B’s shoulders didn’t go unnoticed.
As usual, the house smelt like cooking when JJ arrived home. You were in the kitchen and just like it had been with John B, the change in you was obvious to the eye. Except, with you, it was far more bewitching. JJ lent against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and watched you dance to the radio with a small smirk on his face.
“Don’t go on any talent shows anytime soon, yeah?”
You nearly jump six-feet in the air. With a blinding smile, you roll your eyes. “What? You don’t think I’ve got what it takes?”
“No, no,” JJ says, smiling as he approaches you, “I just think you might shock the world with your ability.”
“Mmm. You might be officially out of the dog house, now,” you grin. You hook an arm over his shoulder, holding the other (armed with a spoon) away from his clean clothes. JJ’s heart stammers foolishly at the simple intimate act, but he steels himself in place. You needed this, he reminds himself. He was doing this for you. His hands come to your waist and the two of you sway like trees in a summer evening breeze, rocking from foot to foot.
“How was work?” he asks you.
You smile up at him. “Better knowing I was coming home to you.”
JJ’s heart damn near stops. How the hell did the other JJ get through life with you looking at him like that, and saying things that could be put in movies so casually, as if it were an everyday thing.
Pushing onto your toes, you press a kiss to his lips. Just like last night, it’s quick and fleeting, but this time it lingers, tingling his lips, and he stands, stupefied, as you return to the stove. “I’m doing barbeque beans and fried chicken.”
“Sounds great. You want me to do anything?” JJ wonders.
“Maybe grab us two beers and start the popcorn?”
JJ’s brows furrow. “The popcorn?” he checks.
You nod, glancing over your shoulder to him. “Yeah. For horror movie night.”
“Oh,” JJ says. He nods and does as he’s asked. As the popcorn crackles in the microwave, he racks his brain for whether this ‘horror movie night’ has been mentioned before. Despite all his research at the start of this crazy ride, he hadn’t necessarily read the diaries and journals, but more pursued them to clarify whether this was some elaborate prank or not. Now he was kicking himself: perhaps there might have been some clues in there about traditions and celebrations. Celebrations. JJ’s skin goes cold. God he hopes he doesn’t miss some anniversary…
“It’s my choice tonight, don’t forget,” you tell him as you pass by, a bowl in each hand: one with beans, the other with chicken drumsticks. “Since you made me sit through The Blob.”
“Great movie,” JJ grins.
You roll your eyes mirthfully, shooting him a pointed look. “Terrible movie.”
“That’s what makes it so great,” he counters.
“How the hell are we together?” you sardonically mutter to yourself. You retrieve your beer and two plates, and JJ tentatively pulls the popcorn out of the microwave, frightened of burning himself, and soon enough, you’re both sat on the sofa, ready for horror movie night to commence.
“Not that one,” JJ says as you scroll through various horror flicks. You side-eye him, mouth full of half-chewed chicken.
“I think you’re forgetting this is my choice of movie,” you remind through your chewing.
“I’m just guiding you in avoiding a bad life decision,” he shrugs with a playful grin, reaching for another drumstick.
“Bit late for that, pal,” you snigger. Eventually, you settle on a horror movie from the eighties: ‘Chopping Mall.’ It looks terrible from the movie poster: silver text that’s supposed to resemble dripping blood, with a neon red shopping bag below. An eye pokes out and the tagline reads across the bag: ‘where shopping can cost you an arm and a leg.’ “Do you think they already had that tagline in mind and made the movie around it?”
JJ laughs. You’d taken so long in deciding that the two of you were practically done eating. He places his plate atop of yours on the coffee table and relaxes back into the couch cushions. You toss your legends up into his lap. The opening credits roll. JJ’s hand comes to rest on your calve and he rubs slow, deep circles into the skin. In the corner of his eye, he finds your smile, and he tries to bite back his own.
Watching movies in silence is, apparently, not your thing. JJ’s relieved, as he also struggles to sit in silence for extended periods of time. You make commentaries, tease the actors and characters, mimic their lines and follow it with ‘I could have been in this movie’, and heckle the script. JJ isn’t sure how or why this ‘tradition’ began, but Horror Movie night was a stroke of genius.
“Damn, she can run pretty fast, huh?” you mumble as the trio of characters sprint through the shopping mall, away from the very-non-threatening robot.
“Channeling her inner Tom Cruise,” JJ agrees. You giggle and it feels like a reward. All too quickly he’s come to learn that he loves the sound of your laughter. The action scene continues, and suddenly ‘Rick’ is superhero jumping off the top of the elevator.
“Rick!” another character yells out.
“Woah,” you and JJ whistle in unison.
“He’s pretty cute, huh?”
“Who? The robot?” JJ frowns.
“No. ‘Rick’,” you reply, gesturing to the screen.
JJ’s frown deepens. “No way.”
“You don’t think? Google who the actor is.”
“No!” JJ laughs. Maybe it’s the beer that has him joshingly adding, “You got all the eye candy you could need right here, baby.”
You cock your head, smile twisting into something darker. Your teeth catch your lower lip. “Hm…I guess I do, don’t I?”
Something shifts. JJ’s throat goes dry like a virgin on prom night. He looks back to the screen and takes a swig of his beer. Your eyes watch him, not quite as intense as a hawk, but certainly enough for him to feel holes burn into his cheeks. It makes him smile.
“You’re missing the movie.”
“It’s a shit movie.”
“I told you to pick a good one.”
“Better than ‘The Blob.’”
JJ’s head whips around to meet your gaze. You’re grinning from ear to ear. He grins back. Cocks a brow. “You gonna take that back?”
“Mm-mm,” you hum innocently, shaking your head. JJ’s hand locks around your ankle and he tugs you closer to him across the couch.
“Take it back,” he demands, smile growing the closer you get. You don’t resist, simply shake your head, trying and failing to bite back your shit-eating grin. “I mean it - take it back.”
“What’re you gonna do about it if I don’t?” you challenge, leaning forward until he can smell the shampoo in your hair. Your eyes are stunning: twinkling with a liveliness JJ’s not sure he’s ever known. There’s a little scar above one of your eyebrows. The beginnings of laughter lines on your forehead. Your lips are what draws him in, though. Plump and damp from your messing. Smiling. His hand moves without cause: fingers crawling over your cheek until he’s cradling your jaw in his palm. Something ticks in him when you lean into his touch, your smile softening like ice cream melting on your tongue. Your fingers creep up his chest, hooking into the collar of his shirt, and JJ lets you tug him in, closer, closer, until his lips find yours. JJ isn’t sure why, but he quietly confesses: “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”
It’s different from the other kisses you’ve shared with him. This time, it’s purposeful. It’s as if you’re both trying to speak the same language, finding some sort of translation as his lips slot against yours, the two of you pushing and pulling like waves of the sea. Your tongue catches his lower lip and he parts his mouth. Your tongues brush over one another in some inexplicable dance as JJ tastes you. Something escapes him - akin to a moan or a grunt - and you whine, fingers slipping into his blonde hair, tethering into the tendrils, and you pull him nearer. His hands become greedy. They slide down your body until they hook under your ass. You gladly let JJ pull you into his lap. Air is minor. Small moments to part, to take a breath. It’s like you’re all the oxygen JJ needs, the same he is for you. For JJ, he’s learning you. Every move of your tongue, trick of your teeth, brush of your lips is new, exhilarating, and fucking erotic. He’s mapping it to memory. Every reaction he can draw from you, as his hands knead your thighs, his tongue chases your taste, and his fingers tease your skin. But for you, it’s like coming home. You know JJ inside and out, perhaps better than he knows himself, and you fucking show it. Feather-light touch of your nails on his skin that have him almost whining. The way you pull his hair just enough to walk that beautiful thin line of pain and pleasure…It’s addicting. JJ wants more, more, more.
The fire eventually slows. JJ sits, burning, as you pull away. Your forehead bumps against his. His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, as does yours, and he nudges his nose against yours. You giggle underbreath. He smiles, eyes still shut, as if opening them might shatter the moment. His thumb brushes the apple of your cheek: the skin is hot to the touch under the pad of his finger. One of your hands rests on his stomach, atop of his t-shirt, and leisurely scratches patterns lightly onto the skin.
“I miss you so much,” you whisper. JJ hates the heaviness in your voice. He squeezes your hip reassuringly but he isn’t sure what to say. Not yet, anyway. And so, JJ kisses you again. Shorter but no less sweeter. You know tonight isn’t the night, the same way JJ does. It feels wrong for him to kiss you, let alone touch you. You’re not his - not in the way you think. JJ doesn’t think other JJ is here, in this reality, but on the off chance that he might come back, JJ doesn’t love the idea of being found in bed with his girl.
But it isn’t just that. As you slip back onto the sofa, now cuddled up safely into JJ’s side - his arm hooked around you, holding you close - JJ knows it’s something deeper. He doesn’t want to rush this. The way he feels about you is nothing like the girls back home. He doesn’t just want to fuck you and search for some self-worth in the sheets. He doesn’t just want to chase that temporary high that helps him numb the pain of living for a few short minutes. He doesn’t want to use you like that. He wants to know you. He wants to hold you close, and spend time with you, and understand you. And most of all, he wants to understand whatever the fuck is going on with his heart, because no matter howhard he tries, it won’t seem to calm the fuck down.
*~*~*~*~*~*
It was as if JJ had let go of a boulder he’d been dragging around for weeks. As it tumbled away, everything became lighter, and JJ found it easier to sink into his role of - well - JJ. Work only became easier. Well, except for the fact that every hour spent at the store was an hour away from you. He’d grown more attached than vines on a house. He was growing obsessed with you. JJ told himself it was like a research project. He was in too deep, wanting to know you inside and out, that was all. But even his own psyche laughed at that excuse. JJ knew what it was, even if he didn’t want to admit it. He was falling for you.
“It was nice seeing everyone again,” you tell him as the two of you walk back home from John B’s house. It’s dark out - the road lit up by street lamps - and the silence of the streets make it feel as though the two of you are the only people in the world. A dog barks in the distance, cicadas and owls create a enchanting melody for the creek, and fireflies twinkle by far-off trees. JJ squeezes your hand subconsciously as if to check this was really his life right now. He couldn’t remember Kildare being so pretty. He wonders if you have something to do with it.
“Sounds like school’s kickin’ Pope’s ass, huh?” JJ replies.
“He’ll get through it,” you shrug. “Just like how he did with the SATs.”
JJ nods his head. You often do that, allude to anecdotes or memories that JJ is supposed to share with you. He’s found it best to simply play along.
“D’you ever wish you went to college?” you ask JJ. He laughs.
“Babe, I think both of us know that was never on the cards.”
“Don’t say it like that!” you chastised, untethering your hand to instead loop it around his waist. He hooks his arm over your shoulder, keeping you close by. “You could’ve gotten in on a mechanic degree.”
“You’re sweet,” he says, smiling down at you. You poke your tongue out at him and JJ kisses you, mostly because he still can’t believe he can. Since that night on the sofa, the boundaries had continued to be pushed. JJ had to be honest: his resolve to stay an honest man was slipping. You were so soft. The way you felt under his hands; the way your body moved; the fucking sounds you make. God…JJ was a full-fledged addict. He craved more.
He slept in the same bed as you, cuddled close under sheets. As the summer became more and more humid and muggy, clothes were less and less needed. You’d sleep in little more than a vest top and panties, and JJ merely in boxers. It was like a psychological test. How far can you push a man before he breaks? It might help if it wasn’t pain-stakingly obvious that you wanted to jump his bones. JJ would practically hear the battle in your mind, fighting whether to test the waters or let JJ initiate. After all, he said he needed time. But JJ was only half-ashamed to admit that if you were to test those waters, even if it were just to dip in a toe, he’d gladly get himself soaking wet. JJ wanted to know what other sounds he could pull from you. He wanted to know the way your face would contort with pleasure. Would your nose scrunch like it would when you were annoyed, or would everything just slip away, no sign of tension, only pure bliss? He wanted to know how you’d feel. Get you all worked up and toy with you over your panties before pushing them aside, slipping his fingers into your wet, desperate–
“D’you ever wish you did?” JJ blurts out, face flaming hot. Then, calmer, clarifies, “to college, I mean?”
“I mean, sometimes, yeah. Was working at a smoothie shop my lifelong dream?” you rhetorically ask. “But I don’t know. I guess life just finds it’s way, right? Isn’t that what they say in Jurassic Park?”
“Ah, yes. The most notable of scholars,” JJ deadpans. Your fingers tickle his side and he squirms. You laugh, he smiles. Everything’s good.
“I mean it though,” you continue, more serious again. “If I went to college then who knows what would’ve happened to us. We always said we’d try and make it work long distance if I did go, but it’s always easier said than done.”
JJ frowns. “I meant that when I said it though.”
You blink up at him, taken aback. “You did?”
JJ doesn’t need to be your JJ to know he would have. Hell, your JJ would have been a fucking idiot to let you slip through his fingers. “Hell yeah I did.”
You smile. It’s prettier than all the consolations twinkling above the two of you in the sky. “Thanks fishie.”
“Tell me the story of how we met,” he randomly asks.
Amused and befuddled, you ask with a laugh, “why?”
“Cause I like the way you tell it.” It isn’t a complete lie: JJ knows he’ll like the way you’ll tell it. You can read him out the shopping list and he’s enthralled. That seems reason enough to appease. You look ahead as the two of you continue to walk and deliberate where to begin the tale.
“Well, I guess it all started with that project me and Pope were doing at school. We’d started hanging out together more to finish it. Sometimes we’d do the project at John B’s house, where you and the rest of the Pogues were hanging, and I tried to find more and more excuses to see Pope so I’d have more and more excuses to see you.”
JJ tries to bite back his smile. There’s a twinge of embarrassment in your tone as if you’re cringing at your former self, but JJ thinks it’s nothing shy of endearing.
“But you were confused. See, I didn’t know Pope hadn’t told y’all that we were doing a project together. And I guess I hadn’t thought about the fact that I kept showing up at these hangs with Pope. So that one time when we were in the kitchen - y’know, when you were making a sandwich and I was getting a drink?” JJ nods, eager for you to continue. “I tried starting a conversation with you. And, man, I thought I was gonna black the fuck out I was so damn nervous.”
“I make you nervous, huh?” JJ can’t help but ask, a shit-eating grin on his smug face.
“You wanna hear this story or not, mister?”
“A’right, a’right,” he laughs, holding a hand up in mock surrender.
“Anyway,” you grit out playfully, “you asked how it was going with Pope. Well, I obviously thought you meant our school project - which was going alright - so that’s what I told you: ‘It’s going alright, I guess’. Then you asked how long it’d been and I was even more confused why you were so obsessed with this stupid project. So, again, I was like, ‘uh, a month or so.’ Then, you asked if it was serious. I was like ‘how serious can a school project be?’. So I was like, ‘uh, not really.’ And you looked so offended. But also kind’a relieved?”
JJ struggles to hold back his laughter. It’s okay though, because you’re having a tough time doing so too.
“So then,” you say, breaking into giggles, “you gave me this really long look. Like long. It was almost like a puppy dog look? Like a hurt puppy dog? And you said something really weird like, ‘well, Pope’s a great guy’. And I was like, ‘ok-ay?’. And then - finally - you said, ‘you two make a really cute couple’.”
At this point you’re nearly doubled over in hysterics. JJ’s laughing too, but he’s held captive by the story.
“And then I thought to myself: OH FUCK. He thinks I’m fucking his best friend! Now he’s never gonna fuck me!” You howl with laughter, tears weeping from your eyes, and JJ can’t look away from you, smiling like a damn fool. “And I was like, ‘Oh no no no! We’re not together like that! We’re just school partners!’ And that’s–” You gasp for air, wiping your tears. Taking a few breathes, trying and failing and trying again, you finally calm down enough to finish the story: ‘and that’s when you took the biggest breath of relief ever and said ‘thank fuck’.”
JJ holds your gaze. His smile mirrors yours. Thank fuck. He can practically hear the words rolling off his tongue and feel the relief flowing through his body that you weren’t with Pope, not even slightly.
“And the rest is history,” you shrug.
“That’s a damn good story,” JJ smiles.
You giggle up at him. “I guess I do tell it pretty well, huh?”
A thought flashes across JJ’s brain, bright as a supernova. You’re so beautiful. His heart hiccups.
“I’ll say,” JJ agrees. He catches your hand again and intertwines his fingers with yours. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”
*~*~*~*~*~*
Three months. Three months living his doppleganger’s life. Three months of working his dream job with his best friend. Three months of visiting his mom and dad, drinking sangria on their porch and listening to any story he can pry out his parents. Three months of spending nearly every day with you. Three months of cooking and eating dinner. Three months of morning routines and evening rituals. Three months of Horror Movie night. Three months of dates on the beach at sunsets and making out on the sofa to the radio and falling asleep tangled in your arms. Three months of a life that JJ never thought he could have, and never knew he wanted.
His dad broaches the ring again. He reminds JJ of its existence when he goes to visit. And this time, JJ isn’t full of panic. Instead, he’s full of excitement. Anticipation, even. Pictures appear in his mind of white dresses and pressed black suits and flowers and garters and a white bedspread prettied with rose petals and you, in wedding lingerie, writhing and giggling, as he crawls atop of you and–
Fuck, JJ was horny.
Yes, it had been three whole months since JJ had done anything intimate outside of kissing and dry humping. And he thinks he might be about to go feral or barking mad.
It doesn’t help that you can’t keep your hands to yourself. Your hand rests on his thigh as he drives. Fingers teasing the fabric of his jeans, seemingly absentminded in your teasing. JJ might swerve the car off the road at this rate. You’d proposed an hour that the two of you should go on a late night drive. It’s so pretty tonight, you told him as you glanced out the kitchen window, we should go on a drive and watch the stars. JJ had grabbed a bag of chips (the pig testicle chips, as you dubbed them) and a bottle of wine with two shitty plastic cups, and you had shoved two thick blankets into an oversized tote bag and snatched up a large pillow from the couch. With that, you hit the road.
JJ follows your directions to a secret viewpoint. You tell him you and Sarah found it the other week on a hike. He follows the dirt track, half aware that it feels like driving into a horror movie, before the trees show a clearing. It’s a cliff edge, plenty wide enough, with a glorious view of Kildare. Figure Eight shines like a beacon in the back, whilst The Cut shimmers like gold dust. Fireflies serve as the only company as JJ helps you out of the truck. The radio continues to play, humming quietly to itself as the two of you load up the bed of the truck with the blankets and pillow. You jump up and JJ follows, and the two of you shuffle around until you’re cosy atop of the unforgiving metal. You’re tucked into his side, cheek against his chest, and JJ’s right arm is looped around you, keeping you close as if you might float away. You tangle your legs into his, your fluffy socks snuggly against his calves. Titling your heads back, the view of the sky above is breathtaking. Stars upon stars stretching across an expanse of pure black.
“Thanks for doing this,” you quietly say into the night air. JJ squeezes you.
“Course.”
After twenty minutes of star gazing in silence, save for when a shooting stars flashes by - ‘I wish to be chosen by the cat distribution system.’ - ‘I could just adopt us a cat.’ - ‘It isn’t the same.’ - you sit up and reach for the wine. JJ takes the cup you offer to him.
“A toast,” you smile, “to many more nights spent like this one.”
“Any night spent with you is a night to remember,” JJ suavely says. You practically dissolve at his words.
“Cheers,” you conclude, holding your cup out for JJ to ‘tink’ against. The wine tastes like strawberries. It wets his throat and calms his nerves. There’s a strange aura to the night. It’s like JJ hasn’t read the full page, and doesn’t know where the chapter will lead. “That was a good toast, fishie.”
Brushing some hair off your face, JJ says, “tell me the story of the fish thing.”
Just as you had done before when he asked to hear the story of how you met, you’re confused, but not irritated. “Because you like the way I tell it?” you wonder, hazarding a guess. JJ grins.
“Course.”
You take another sip of wine and JJ does the same. Gazing off, JJ can see every star reflecting in your eyes. He could drown in them. He could drown in this moment. “I don’t really know when it started…Oh! Wait, yes, I do!”
JJ loves the way you perk up. You’re already laughing as you say, “it’s so dumb! It was when we got those super sour candies on our second date, and I made this weird face, and you said I looked like a fish! And I told you that if you tried one, you’d look like a fish too. And then we took pictures of each other to prove it.”
Laughter bubbles up JJ’s throat. He cracks up, shaking his head. All this time, these three months, JJ has tried and tried to understand where on earth his fish thing came from. He’d read every diary and journal entry, and analysed every story you’d told him. He thought it must be something significant, like the first time you said ‘I love you’. Something groundbreaking. But no, it was a silly thing, as silly as two teenagers sharing sour sweets. That one little thing had spiralled until it became the string tying everything together: nicknames left on love letters and in birthday cards; scribbled on kitchen notes and typed in texts; whispered in the dark of the bedroom or shouted across the house followed by a request. JJ had followed the clues for the answer and there it was: a quick, four-or-so sentenced anecdote.
When JJ finally catches his breath, he washes his humour down with the rest of his wine, and lays his eyes on you. Your brows are raised, waiting for an explanation, and JJ shakes his head.
“You do tell that story well,” he murmurs. You brim with pride.
“I do, huh?”
JJ can’t look away from you. You’re stunning, sitting on your knees atop of scrunched up blankets. The hoodie you’re wearing is JJ’s. It hangs slightly oversized on your frame, skimming the tops of your thighs, concealing the pyjama shorts you don. The fluffy toes of your socks poke out behind you, from where you sit atop of your legs. Hair slightly messy, falling around your face like framing a magnificent painting, and a smile unmoving from your lips.
“You’re my favourite part of all of this,” he tells you. Your brows tug together slightly.
“Of all of what?” you ask. JJ shakes his head, smiling to himself.
“This,” he simply replies. Your lips twitch up higher, happy with the answer, it seems.
“I missed you so much, JJ,” you whisper. Missed. Like it’s a thing of the past. Like there’s nothing to miss now, because he’s here, with you again like he was before.
“C’mere,” JJ murmurs. You swig the last of your wine and toss your cup into the bed of the truck. JJ drops his own cup away, hands reaching out to help guide you onto his lap. Your legs straddle him, knees planted either side of his hips, and you snake your arms over his shoulders. JJ kisses you like a man starved. You taste like strawberry wine and hours spent in the sun and the past and the future and everything. You’re everything. JJ pulls you impossibly closer. His hands desperately grab and hold you, searching your skin under your clothes. You whine against his mouth. He moans against yours. You rock against him and JJ sighs, his forehead slipping to fall pathetically on your shoulder. You waste no time exploring, kissing a trail from his jaw and cheeks to his ear. Kitten lick the lobe before taking it in your teeth, tasting and trying. JJ’s practically breathless. He holds you close as if he’s scard you might turn to dust in his hold. Nothing more than a phantom he’s made up in his lonely, cold bed.
JJ knows then what this was for. It wasn’t the job, or his parents. It wasn’t the bordering sobriety, or the money, or the house. The reason the universe had planted him here was for you. JJ wanted this. He wanted a life filled with love, not anger. He wanted intimacy, not sex. He wanted to live, not just exist.
“I love you,” he nearly gasps against you. It’s like he can’t keep the words down any longer. “I love you, baby. I love you.”
“I love you too,” you whisper. Quick, like a reflex. Certain. Nobody’s ever been certain of JJ before. Your hands plant on his face, one on each side, and you force his face away until he opens his eyes into yours. You’re crying. Smiling through the tears, gazing at him like he’s something worth looking at. “I love you so much, JJ. I was…I was so scared,” you hiccup, sniffling your words, “I was so scared I wasn’t what you wanted anymore.”
JJ’s head shakes. You don’t let go of him, not once. “I’m always gonna want you.” Then, half-laughing, as if something absurd just occurred to him he admits, “I don’t know how I made it so long not knowing you existed.”
It’s your turn to shake your head now, giggling through your tears. “You’re everything to me, JJ Maybank. Everything.”
JJ doesn’t want to stop kissing you. Not as he lies you down on the bed of the truck. Not as his fingers slip below your hoodie, until he’s coaxing it up and over your head. But he has to. Has to let his mouth follow the invisible line, down your throat, along your sternum, until he’s taking the pebbled nub of your nipple between his lips. You gasp, fingers slipping into his hair, back arching just-so, and JJ knows you must be as touch starved as him.
“Fuck, baby, please,” you whine, head rolling back. He gives the same treatment to the other breast, his fingers teasing over the now neglected nipple. But then you’re nearly clawing at his face, dragging him up to your mouth. It’s filthy, the kiss you catch him in. Your hands desperately grab at his shirt, encouraging it up and over his head, and JJ pulls away long enough to toss it to the side. Fingers trace over the skin of his back; feel up his chest, over his muscles as they tense with every shortened breath. “I missed you so fucking much.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” JJ promises. He’s never meant something more.
“You better.”
You’re just as soft as JJ imagined. The way you give under his fingers as they trace the silky wetness gathered between your legs. The sounds you make are better than those he conjured in the darkest parts of his mind. You grab for him, nails digging slightly into the skin of his biceps, as if it’s all a little too overwhelming. But you beg. Please, baby, I need you…Stop teasing, please. He can’t keep himself from you much longer. JJ’s finger slips inside you so easy. He shudders against your clammy skin, sighing against your collarbones as if it might be him, and you mewl as he fingers you under the starlight. Your hips rock helpless, lips damp and pretty as you let out the most hauntingly beautiful sounds. Sounds that will forever ghost JJ’s thoughts. You come with a shudder, fingernails leaving crescents in his bare shoulders, gasping out his name among cusses. JJ thinks it’s the most gorgeous prayer he’s ever heard. You taste like nectar on his tongue as he sucks his fingers clean, and he twitches in his boxers.
“So fucking pretty when you come,” he grunts, kissing your neck fervently. “Wanna fucking taste you forever.”
“Please, JJ,” you beg. Your hands push at his shorts. “Please.”
“Want me to fuck you, baby?” he whispers into the crux of your ear. He grins at the gasp you let out. He can’t help but toy with your soaking cunt as he teases. “Is that what you want? D’you need it bad, baby?”
“Fuck you, JJ,” you hiss. He can’t help but chuckle at the moan which shatters your words. “God, please. Yes. Please, just…fuckin’...”
“I’ve got you, baby,” JJ croons. He shrugs off his shorts, soon followed by his boxers. When you take his length in your hands, his eyes squeeze shut and he grits his teeth. Fuck, he’s already so close.
“Missed you so much,” you tell him again, a knowing taunt to your words. He forgets how well versed you are in the language of him. Guiding him to your centre, he groans as he grinds experimentally, slipping easily from how wet you are.
“Don’t we need–”
“Pill, remember, babe?” you hum innocently against the apex of his throat. JJ sinks into you and he nearly blacks out. It’s intoxicating: the way you feel - gripping him, clenching around him; the sounds you make - gasping, whining, cussing, nearly screaming; the lewd sounds of sex as he fucks you until the only thing the two of you can say are the only things that matter in that moment. Please and fuck and God, yes. You cry out his name when you come, eyes screwed tight, lips curving with the shadow of a smile, and JJ shatters from the sound. He grunts and moans helpless against your skin, slick with sweat, as he fucks the two of you through your highs. Until finally he’s slipping out, heaving atop of you, searching his mind for some frame of reference because it’s never been that good before, has it?
You refuse to let him slip away from you. You hold him close, kissing any expanse of skin exposed to you. JJ smiles tired and spent against your warm skin. The two of you tug a blanket over your sedated bodies, soaked with dopamine. And you lay like that, tangled and tethered together, until you both catch your breath.
“I love you,” JJ murmurs into the dead of night. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long.”
“I knew you’d come back to me eventually,” you tell him, voice kind like an angel. Your fingers scratch through his hair like petting a dog, easing him to sleep. But he doesn’t want to leave this moment. His eyes slip shut, nonetheless. It’s as if you can read his mind; he hears you whisper, “get some sleep, baby. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Before darkness pulls him under, he catches three words that JJ will never get sick of hearing leave your mouth.
“I love you.”
*~*~*~*~*~*
JJ wakes with a groan. He’s laying on his side, his face is squished into the pillow, dried drool stuck to his chin. As he comes out of a deep sleep, it almost feels like he’s waking up from death. He forces his eyes open just to close them a moment later. The room is dark, as if shadowed in grey from cloudy skies. It’s warm and sticky: bed sheets cling to the bare skin of his back, drawn to the sweat. Maybe that’s the thing that has JJ’s eyes flying open.
The last thing he could remember was falling asleep with your body flush against his. You were still trying to even out your breathes, body clammy from his touch and the pleasure the two of you had shared. Beneath the two of you had been two blankets layered atop of one another, and below that, the metal bed of a pick-up truck. But JJ frowns as he feels a bumpy mattress taking the weight of his body. He sits up, the sheets slipping down to his waist, and looks around the room, bleary eyed.
He glances to the spot in the bed beside him. It’s empty, untouched. He calls your name but there’s no reply. He takes in his surroundings. It’s his room. Not the room the two of you shared in that gorgeous little house. No, this is his room from before. Barren of warmth or personality. Soulless in the lack of you.
Panic uncurls within him. It starts in his head and ends in his toes, until his whole body is vibrating, spiralling with dread. He calls your name, louder, and hurries out of bed. Pulling on a pair of boxers, he does a lap of the crappy apartment he had once found solace in. Now, it’s a cage. A relic to his past life and bachelor days. Empty takeout boxes pile up by the overflowing bin. Beer bottles and cans litter the counter. A half-smoked joint lies limp on the dusty coffee table. A random girl’s cardigan flung carelessly over the back of his years-old couch. But there’s nothing of you here. Nothing.
JJ pushes his hands through his hair, chest heaving, teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He knows what’s happened - knows it’s useless - but he calls your name again, over and over and over. He calls it until his throat goes dry, until it doesn’t sound like a real word. Until he’s sat on the floor, knees to his chest, leaning his back against the side of the bed. He cradles his head in his hands, fingers sinking into his scalp like claws. That’s when the tears finally come.
“No,” he sobs into his palms. “No, please…Please, take me back…Let me go back…”
The universe didn’t answer his pleas.
*~*~*~*~*~*
JJ moves through his world with a broken heart. He slowly picks it back together, unmotivated as he puzzles the chunks into place. His job is monotonous and empty, just as his days are without knowing you’ll be at the end of them. His evenings are spent isolated, drinking himself to sleep, convincing himself that when he curls under the covers, your arms are there to hold him. It stays that way for a couple of weeks.
That is until JJ is walking through town. Something catches his eye. It sits like a lighthouse, and he’s drawn to it like a sailor whose been lost at sea. The bright green and orange of the sign feels like a hallucination, a memory from a dream he once had, but it’s real. The smoothie shop you used to work at.
He knows it’s a pipedream. The universe had been using JJ as its own personal entertainment for the past three months, so why now would it change its tune and show charity? But as JJ approaches, the smoothie shop remains, and he finally lets himself have hope for the first time since he woke up alone in his apartment.
It’s not very busy inside. Reggae music plays from the speaker by the door. There’s a group of teengers sat talking animatedly as they sip their smoothies; a couple with a beautiful golden retriever reside by the window, people watching. Someone’s at the counter, blocking the view of the cashier they’re speaking too, and a worker is at the blenders. JJ feels his feet pull him toward the counter. He glances around as if to check that this is real, and when he looks back ahead, the man in front of him is thanking the worker and moving to the side to collect his order and:
“Hi!”
JJ’s world stops. And then, he breathes for the first time in two weeks.
It’s you. It’s really, truly you. You’re standing in your little uniform, hair pulled back, eyes shimmering in the sunlight that glows through the large windows at the front of the shop. It’s like a drop of sunlight: ethereal and impossible and pure and perfect and somehow here, stood before JJ.
“Hi,” JJ manages to reply.
You tap something on the cash register, oblivious to JJ’s shock, before glancing back up at him. “Are you ready to order?”
JJ nods, dumbfounded. Then you smile, and his heart sings, and he knows that this is what he was meant to do. He was meant to come find you.
“Alrighty,” you sing-song, picking up a takeout cup, marker pen at the ready to write on the plastic. “What can I do for you?”
Everything, JJ thinks as he stares at his future. Everything.
taglist (please let me know if you want to be added/removed, or if you want to be in the jj maybank only or bucky barnes only taglist!) : @highformaybank | @vampiriito | @love-at-first-sight-23 | @delusionalxreader | @darlingchronicles | @moond0llie | @onelonelybitch | @abigailovesz | @s0phreakingfunny | @groovypeanutoperatorzonk | @doesnt-care | @chuuuchuuutrain | @highpope | @katecokeed | @mrrayjay | @supercxnt | @baocean
│WARNINGS・+18, strong language, alcohol use, smoking, mental instability, mental illness, insecurities, no use of y/n. third person perspective. lmk if im missing something. enjoy.
│summary・"Whispers of the Sea" breathes life into forgotten memories through wistful poems and hidden truths. Drawn to it's words, Rafe finds himself chasing echoes of a past he can’t fully recall. The anonymous blogger is the childhood friend forgotten in time. Rafe searches for the pieces of a forgotten puzzle, trying to make sense of the storm brewing in his mind, while his heart fills with the poems of the girl he once adored.
│pairing・Ex-childhoodfriend!Rafe Cameron x Poet/Blogger!Female oc/reader
Prince · Purple Rain · Song · 1984
Only two days had passed.
For Rafe, it felt like half a lifetime.
He hadn’t been able to fall asleep on either of those nights. He tossed and turned in bed until the sky began to lighten, his eyes burning and his body exhausted. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that girl’s face. It was blurry, incomplete, like an old, badly focused Polaroid.
He wasn’t sure if he remembered her voice, her laugh, or even the exact color of her eyes. In truth, he wasn’t sure of anything.
Everything felt strange, unreal.
Like a bad joke one of his friends might have played on him, except this one was happening inside his head, and there was no way out of that.
Sometimes he thought he would suddenly wake up and everything would disappear. But it didn’t. He felt like he was trapped inside a movie. One where the answers were right in front of him, almost within reach, but something was holding him back. He just had to gather the courage. He just had to dare.
And still, he was afraid. He was so afraid. Afraid of talking to his father. Afraid of what he might find if he dug too deep. Afraid he wouldn’t like the truth. Afraid of discovering that there were things that couldn’t be fixed. And afraid that he had fallen into madness. That all of this was a product of his imagination. That others would realize he was crazy.
How was it possible for something like this to happen?
How was it possible to forget someone?
Not just forgetting her face or her voice, but forgetting her completely. Not even remembering her as a small moment in his life. A tiny, temporary bond he shared in childhood. One of those things you assume are impossible to erase entirely.
But there was nothing.
It was a blank.
As if she had never been there.
As if that part of his life had been torn out. A gap. An entire fragment of existence vanished from his memory. He had no physical proof. He had nothing to anchor him to reality. Nothing to confirm that what his confused mind was showing him wasn’t just an invention.
So what was real and what wasn’t?
What could he trust if his memories were failing him?
What other things were slipping away?
What people, what moments, what places were also erased from his mind without him knowing?
The thought froze him from the inside.
If that had been possible once, what else could have disappeared without a trace?
How was it possible for something like that to happen?
He doubted himself.
His room was filled with the photographs he had taken of his father’s office. How many other memories had he lost without realizing it? How many moments had vanished?
He thought about his mother.
He thought about how the day she died was tattooed into his mind. It was cruel. He remembered how she had gotten worse in the afternoon. He remembered going into the room, telling her good night. He remembered how she pulled him against her lap before he went to bed.
A few hours later, his own father woke him up. From that moment on, he never slept again.
He was awake when the sun began to rise. He was awake when the morning turned into a gray landscape.
People came in and out of the house. And he didn’t move from the living room. He couldn’t. He was wearing a suit. A tie that was too tight around his neck, as if the situation weren’t already suffocating enough.
He remembered asking his father something.
He doesn’t remember exactly what it was, he only knows it was enough to make him snap. He remembers the shout, loud and sharp, in front of his uncles. He remembers the awkward silence that came afterward.
And he also remembers spending the rest of the day locked in his room, crying.
He was sad for a long time. So long that the days began to feel the same. And then, as if entire chapters had been skipped, he was already a preteen. He was already friends with Kelce and Topper.
He was repeating the same story over and over, with missing parts. Incomplete.
From a distance, he heard the cry of a seagull and realized he had spent another night awake.
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. They burned. They felt heavy. He couldn’t stand feeling like this anymore. He was exhausted. He felt desolate.
And so alone.
That morning, when he found his lost photo albums with Sarah, he realized that no one understood him. Not even his sister.
She didn’t understand why this was so important to him.
Why could a few lost photos hurt so much?
Why did not remembering a girl make him feel like his heart was breaking into pieces?
He didn’t have those answers either.
Or at least, not all of them.
He only knew that it hurt. That he had cried uncontrollably, his chest tight from feeling lost inside himself. But how could he explain it? If he couldn’t even fully understand it himself.
Maybe that was why he was so changeable sometimes. Why he had never felt completely understood.
Because something was missing in him.
A piece of who he was that would make everything fall into place.
Her.
He heard noises downstairs. The house was waking up, and that meant the people inside it were waking up too. He knew Wheezie would sleep for a couple more hours. Sarah, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t be there that morning. She probably hadn’t even slept there that night.
He kicked the sheets away from his feet, clumsy and weighed down by exhaustion. The air in the room felt heavy, as if it were hard to breathe even while being alone in it. He debated what would be best.
If he went downstairs now, it was very likely he would run into his father. And if he was honest with himself, he didn’t feel stable enough to face him. Or to face what it meant to be in the same space as him.
The mere thought tightened his stomach. Being close to his father always brought something else with it.
He turned over in bed and stretched his arm toward the nightstand. He grabbed the cigarette almost blindly, with clumsy movements, and barely managed to light it with the lighter that was screaming to be replaced. The spark failed a couple of times before it finally caught.
He inhaled, trying to somehow fill the emptiness pressing against his chest.
He inhaled again, as if the thick smoke slipping into his lungs could fix everything that was happening inside his head.
The burn scraped his throat. The bitter taste clung to his tongue. He felt a sharp pain behind his eyes, constant and insistent. His eyelids struggled to close, heavy and tired, but sleep never quite came.
Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.
He had lost count of how many cigarettes he’d smoked, maybe the fourth, when there was a knock on his bedroom door. He sat upright in bed, his body tense, and quickly crushed the glowing ember into the ashtray.
“Rafe?”
Sarah’s voice loosened something in his chest.
“Yeah?”
His voice came out rough, as if he hadn’t used it in days.
“Just checking on you,” she said. “How did you sleep?”
Rafe watched her head peek through the doorway, her eyes scanning the room. It was a mess. Clothes scattered across the floor, drawers half open, empty cigarette packs. It looked like a hurricane had swept through the Outer Banks, one that had only hit his bedroom.
“Good,” he lied without thinking. Then he spoke more quietly. “Uh, I’m alright, Sarah. The other day was…” He made a vague gesture with his hand and lowered his gaze to his lap. “It was nothing.”
Sarah didn’t react right away. She didn’t nod. She didn’t smile. She didn’t contradict him.
She just watched him.
“Sure,” she said at last, glancing down the hallway before looking back at him. “Dad’s gone, in case you wanted to know.”
Rafe lifted his head, his eyes more alert now.
“Great.”
His sister sighed, aware that she wasn’t going to get anything more out of her brother. From one day to the next, Rafe had stopped acting like her brother. It was like living with a stranger in her own house, someone with the same face, but completely different.
“I’m leaving,” Sarah said, making a small gesture toward the door with her head. “Text me. Or call me. If you need anything.”
Rafe turned his face slightly toward the window and let out a low sound, almost imperceptible. A tired okay, with no desire to dig any deeper into Sarah’s concern for him.
Sarah understood. She didn’t insist. She didn’t say anything else. She closed the door carefully behind her as her footsteps faded down the hallway.
Rafe sighed again, longer this time. He was left alone with the silence of the room and the noise inside his head.
And now what?
The idea crossed his mind to look for some kind of proof. Some minimal sign that would confirm he wasn’t crazy. That he hadn’t made it all up. That something strange had really happened.
But where?
The photos, the only things that might have shown him even a fragment of the truth, were already gone. And talking to his father wasn’t an option. Not now. Maybe never.
Sarah had been too young back then, and besides… why would she have photos with a girl who had only been his friend?
He thought about a nanny. About someone who had been around enough to be aware of what his life was like back then. But the idea sounded forced, almost desperate. He didn’t remember any names. Any faces. And asking his father about old nannies was, in some way, even worse than asking him about her.
His grandparents had died and-
That was it.
His grandparents’ house. The treehouse.
It felt like he’d flown the whole way there.
The drive passed in a blur; he barely registered anything until he parked the car in front of the house. When he looked up, something tightened in his chest and a suffocating feeling washed over him. He had spent too much time in that place when his mother got sick. She hadn’t wanted her children to see her bedridden. She didn’t want to be remembered like that.
He didn’t have the keys.
His hands were shaking as he started climbing the fence that enclosed the backyard at the front of the house, the same place where his grandfather used to park the car. When he dropped down on the other side, he felt the brush of tall grass against his legs. No one really took care of the place anymore.
As he walked toward the large tree in the middle of the yard, he felt the weight of the world settle onto his back. Each step grew slower, heavier. That piece of rotting wood was his last hope. The last chance to convince himself that he wasn’t losing his mind, that what he’d been living through these past few days wasn’t a psychotic break in disguise.
He eyed the planks nailed to the trunk with distrust. There were only about four of them, covering barely a meter, but even so, they had never been replaced. They were old and warped.
He placed his foot on the first one and it gave way under his weight, making him stumble. His heart jumped, but he reacted quickly: he climbed the rest almost on instinct, without thinking too much, and ended up sitting on the small platform resting on a thick branch.
He looked down.
And smiled, just a little.
It wasn’t as high as he remembered.
He turned his head and there it was. Beside him. The castle.
It no longer had a door, and one of the windows was missing the curtain his grandmother had once sewn. He almost had to crawl to get inside. The movement felt strange. Like being inside a clumsy trip through space and time. Everything was smaller now, more insignificant in front of his adult eyes.
The floor was covered in dry leaves, and thin, abandoned spiderwebs stretched into every corner. He recognized some drawings taped to the walls instantly. They were his. He knew it even before seeing the signature: little Rafe written beneath each one, in childish handwriting. The paper, once white, had yellowed. In some of them, the colors were faded. He peeled them off one by one, carefully, so they wouldn’t deteriorate any further.
He spotted a few crumpled papers among the leaves. He opened the first ones and found only scribbles, the kind you make when you start drawing and halfway through you already know it won’t turn out the way you imagined.
The last one was hidden beneath a pile of dry leaves.
That one wasn’t his.
He studied it closely, as if he could force his mind to wake up. Expectant.
But he wasn’t sure.
The stick figures were nicer than the ones he used to draw, and there were hearts. And he didn’t draw hearts, he drew flowers. Always flowers.
Maybe Sarah had drawn it during one of her getaways, back when neither of them were around.
If she even existed.
Resigned, he let himself drop down to the ground in a single jump. The impact hurt his knees, but he barely registered it.
And now what?
He had to go back home. He had to confront the only one who might know the truth. He had to face his father.
The drive home felt endless. The drawings in his pockets were a reminder that he hadn’t found anything up there. That there was no proof. His head was a mess.
The hypothetical thought that he might be losing his mind had stopped being so hypothetical, and it was starting to worry him.
He knew what was coming when he turned onto his street.
His father’s car was there. Parked in front of the house.
When he tried to give himself a few minutes to think, it was already too late. He was still sitting in the car, engine off, staring ahead without really seeing anything. He hesitated to get out; he knew exactly what that meant. If his father was right in front of him, he wouldn’t be able to hold it in. He wouldn’t be able to pretend everything was normal. He wouldn’t be able not to ask.
He thought about going to Kelce’s. Or Topper’s. Or anywhere else, really. Any place that wasn’t that.
He looked back at the house and felt his body go cold when he met his father’s eyes watching him from inside.
He clenched his jaw and got out of the car. His hands buried deep in his pockets, gripping the crumpled papers still there. The reminder.
He went in as slowly as he could. Why was Ward there? He was supposed to be at work. He squeezed his eyes shut when he heard noises in the dining room. He was right there. In the other room. If he walked past and went upstairs, he would see him, and he would call out to him, and they would have to talk, and Rafe really didn’t want that.
“Rafe?”
Damn it.
“Hey,” he replied, moving toward where the voice was coming from.
Ward was there, standing in the middle of the room, watching him as if he’d been waiting for him for a while. The Grim Reaper.
“Hey, son,” he greeted with a slight nod before turning and walking toward the kitchen. “Where were you?”
Rafe swallowed.
Should he tell him the truth?
Should he tell him that he’d gone to his late grandparents’ house, jumped the fence, and climbed up into a barely standing treehouse to look for the smallest bit of proof that he wasn’t losing his mind?
“I-I,” he took a deep breath and braced himself to be committed. “I went to Pops’s place.”
Ward stopped. He turned slowly, curious. His eyes narrowed as he assessed him, as if he still didn’t know where the conversation was headed.
“Pops’s place?” he repeated, sitting down on one of the island stools. “But you don’t have a key.”
Rafe nodded slightly, not looking at him.
“No.”
There was a short silence. Dense.
“So?” Ward asked, resting his forearms on the counter. “How did you get in?”
Rafe felt his pulse pounding at his temples.
“I—uh, I jumped the fence,” he sniffed, looking off to the side. He was scared as hell.
Ward raised an eyebrow.
“You jumped the f-?” he laughed and kept talking. “You stayed locked in the backyard doing what?”
His own question seemed to answer itself.
Now his expression was serious. All the humor was gone, the kind he’d had when he imagined his son jumping the fence of his childhood home.
“Why did you go there?”
Rafe hesitated.
“I was looking for old stuff a-and I remembered the treehouse and just-” he let out a humorless laugh. “I thought about going to see it.”
Ward ran his tongue over his teeth.
“What were you looking for?”
Rafe looked at him, brow furrowed. He started to think that maybe his father did know about his missing memories.
“Just- stuff,” he shrugged.
Ward stood up and stepped closer.
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Who have I been talk-? What the fuck does that mean?”
Rafe was starting to get agitated. His father was acting strange; it felt like he was being interrogated over something insignificant, and that only made him feel crazier.
“You don’t need to worry about old things, son,” he said, turning halfway around as he walked toward the liquor cabinet.
Whiskey.
Rafe confirmed that his father knew what was going on.
“It’s a waste of time. You need to focus on the compa-”
“You have them, don’t you?”
Ward kept talking without looking at him. He took a slow sip from his glass.
“Have what?”
“My things. My photos.”
His father looked at him for a few seconds. Rafe looked just like his mother.
“I don’t have them.”
It was true. Rafe’s albums were on the other side of the island, in a nice box on a desk that was used every day.
“You’re lying!”
Rafe felt his throat close up; it was almost hard to speak.
“Don’t raise your voice at me!”
His father spilled some of the drink onto the carpet.
Rafe felt a thick heat growing in his chest. His eyes burned, but he wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. What he felt was helplessness. It was confusion. He didn’t understand. No one did. What was happening? Why had they taken away his right to keep things? Why had his childhood been ripped from him? Why was his own mind doing this to him?
“I-” his hands went to his eyes. He rubbed them hard, almost hurting himself, as if he could erase everything that way. “I don’t understand. I- no, I don’t understand.” He shook his head, desperate, searching for some kind of meaning in that absurd situation.
His father set the glass down roughly on the cabinet. The sharp sound echoed through the room before Ward stepped closer and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Rafe, son-” his father searched for his gaze, forcing him to lift his head. “Don’t live in the past,” Ward looked for the words to make him see reason. “Whatever you remembered, or whatever you were looking for- it’s not worth it, okay?” his hand was now at the back of his neck, squeezing. Hurting him. “Listen to me when I’m talking to you,” he said this time through clenched teeth, low, loaded with threat. Rafe shrank under his touch. “It doesn’t matter. Nobo-none of that matters.”
Rafe shook his head.
“B-but I-” he sniffed and kept shaking his head. “I don’t-I don’t remember.”
“Of course you do, son-”
“No,” he cut him off, turning his gaze toward the walls, looking for strength anywhere but him. “I don’t remember anything.”
Ward half-smiled. Barely. That smile that never reached his eyes.
“Then it’s because you don’t need to.”
“But I want to. I want to remember, and it shouldn’t be this hard. And I think I’m losing my mind because-because I can’t sleep. And I can’t remember her.”
“Your mother?” Ward asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “We have plenty of videos of her, son. You don’t need to remember her-”
“Don’t you get it?” Rafe knew he didn’t. “I want my own memory. I want to be able to remember my mother. I want-!” he shoved him away sharply, putting distance between them. “I want to remember what happened to her. And how she died. And I want-I want to be able to remember on my own when I started liking the beach and-and swimming and-” his voice broke with anger “-and how I learned to draw fucking flowers and-and build the treehouse with Pops without having a fucking parrot repeating how it was!”
His father looked at him. It was only an instant, a tiny fraction of a second, before he decided to pour himself more whiskey. Rafe grabbed his head with both hands, fingers digging hard into his hair. He knew it before it happened: his father was going to hit him. And the worst part wasn’t that. The worst part was that afterward, everything would stay the same.
He wouldn’t talk about it again. He wouldn’t be able to. Sarah wouldn’t understand. His friends wouldn’t understand. And his father would hate him a little more.
“You know what I feel, son?” Ward said, turning around with a glass now fuller than before. “I feel like you’re ungrateful. You always were,” he took a big swallow and went on, “and this just confirms it. You had everything. Your whole life-” Ward continued, stepping closer. “And now you’re complaining because you don’t remember watching your mother being fucking sick? Do you really want to remember that?” he moved even closer. Rafe stepped back instinctively until he stumbled against the armchair, his knees hitting the edge. “Does it bother you not remembering the days you wasted with that damn girl instead of being with your mother? I’m very sorry, Rafe. But it’s already too lat-”
There it was.
Finally.
“What girl?”
Rafe felt the air tighten between them, like Ward could strangle him with nothing but a look.
“Are you fucking with me?”
“What girl, Ward?”
His father let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. A laugh with no humor in it at all. He shook his head as he lifted the glass and finished the whiskey in a single gulp. The liquor burned his throat, mixing with the fury he felt.
“I can’t fucking believe this,” he ran his tongue over his lips. “What, you forgot about your little princess too?” his nostrils flared as he stepped closer to Rafe, invading his space. “That damn treehouse she made your poor grandfather build, all those days your mother wanted to spend time with her kids, but no- she was always there.”
For a moment, just a moment, Rafe forgot the way his father was speaking. He forgot the tone. He forgot the violence. There was only one thing left, pounding in his chest with brutal force.
She had existed.
“I never should’ve let that stupid friendship start in the first place,” he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, as if the memory itself gave him a headache. “But no. I decided to listen to your mother.” he exhaled sharply through his nose. “And I knew it. I knew from the beginning she would bring us trouble.” his eyes locked onto Rafe’s. They were glassy. “That whole family is a problem, Rafe. Those fucking pogues. Always begging for help, always trying to look-nice.” he waved a hand, as if the word disgusted him. “But I know who they are. I know every single Arden, and they’re all exactly the same.” he leaned forward slightly. “Even a seven-year-old girl was like that.”
Arden.
The Arden family.
His mind tried to put everything in order, but it couldn’t. The pieces didn’t quite fit. He was still confused. Still dazed.
They were just kids. And his father had hated her.
The Ardens.
He had been friends with a pogue. Had his father hated her for that?
He had the answer he’d been searching for for days. The one that had stolen his sleep, made him doubt his own mind, pushed him to dig through memories he didn’t even know were real. The memories he’d wanted to recover for so long. And still, something didn’t add up.
There was a bitter taste in his mouth. An aftertaste he couldn’t shake, as if the truth hadn’t brought relief but a different kind of emptiness. Why, if he’d gotten what he was looking for, did he feel defeated?
The slam of the door echoed through the house and made him flinch. The sound was sharp. Final. Only then did it sink in that Ward had left. The silence he left behind was thick, but Rafe felt lighter.
What would he do now?
He stood there for a few seconds, not moving, as if his body needed to catch up with his mind. He couldn’t call his friends. He couldn’t just ask if they knew any pogues, let alone a specific family. It would be weird. Suspicious. Pathetic, even.
He thought about the old phone books his grandfather used to keep. But he knew that if they still existed, they’d be outdated. Useless. Just another dead end.
Sarah.
The name surfaced in his mind with unexpected clarity.
He grabbed his phone with trembling hands. Held it for a few seconds longer than necessary before unlocking it. Dialed his sister’s number. The tone rang once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Until she answered.
“Rafe, are you okay?”
Rafe huffed, rolling his eyes in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair and started pacing around the living room, aimless, feeling electricity race through his body.
“Where can I find the Ardens?”
“Are you okay?”
Rafe huffed again and rolled his eyes.
“Yes, Sarah. Where?”
He was impatient. He’d found her. He finally had a name, a family, something real to hold onto. He was one step away from having her standing right in front of him, and his sister was acting like he was on the verge of a breakdown. For God’s sake, he thought.
On the other end, Sarah hesitated.
“W-wait… John B, wh-” her voice drifted away, as if she’d set the phone down in another room. Then it came back, lower, more careful. “Rafe, um… why do you want to find the Ardens?”
“Sarah, I swear to God, if your stupid boyfriend doesn’t tell me where I can find them, I’ll go to his damn house and make him spit-”
“Rafe, God, calm down.”
He couldn’t calm down. Not now. Not after everything that was happening. He felt his chest tighten, his thoughts racing a mile a minute, crashing into each other without order.
Sarah disappeared for a few seconds. Rafe was sure his brother-in-law was insisting on not telling her where he needed to go. Some stupid pogue rule about protecting each other or some shit like that. He didn’t care. None of that mattered right now.
The line crackled before Sarah came back, breathless, clearly arguing with someone just out of reach.
“They live in Carova, almost near VA Dare Trail- th-their house is light blue-no, uh, blue-green… like a turqu- it doesn’t matter what color the house is, John B!-Rafe, Rafe, I don’t understand what’s going on. I don’t know what you’re going to do. These past few days have been crazy, but please, don’t do something stupid.”
“Thanks, Sarah.” he grabbed the keys to his truck and ran out of the house. “I’ll explain everything once I fix this!”
As he left his house, he felt like something, no matter how small, finally made sense. It made sense that his father hadn’t accepted his friendship with a pogue girl. It made sense that he didn’t remember her. That he didn’t remember that painful part of his life. It made sense that she hadn’t looked for him.
His hands were steady, though white, gripping the steering wheel.
What would he say? What excuse would he give, showing up at a stranger’s house like that? Especially him, who had so openly despised the other side of the island without the slightest remorse. He knew he’d have to show up in some kind of neutral zone, lower his guard, but he wasn’t sure how he’d be received. Or how he himself would react in that moment. Or if she’d even want to see him.
His mind was already imagining possible scenarios of what might happen, one after another, and rejection took up the most space. What would he do if -when- that happened? How would he handle this overwhelming need to talk, to ask, to explain himself, to simply be there, if he wasn’t wanted?
He was crossing the bridge. The boundary between two very different worlds coexisting on the island. He went from a clear, bright sky to a heavy gray cloud that seemed to settle right above his head. It felt like an all-too-accurate description of the state of his mind.
As he drove deeper into the narrow streets, he felt like his heart was about to leap out of his mouth. He was very nervous. But more than anything, he was scared. He didn’t know what it would mean to come face to face with someone who had lived through the worst moment of his life. Moments he still didn’t remember.
Would his memories suddenly surface when he saw her? When he saw the photos? Would he even be able to recover them?
The drive along VA Dare Trail felt endless. He looked from side to side, alert, waiting to recognize the street his sister had mentioned. Thunder rumbled in the sky and the sound slammed into his chest; Rafe jolted slightly in his seat, startled.
He slammed one fist against the steering wheel and cursed out loud for being so on edge, for feeling so close to losing control. Almost ironically, he thought of the breathing exercises Rose -his father’s partner- had once suggested he do in the middle of a business dinner. A dinner that, curiously enough, would end up defining the future of his life.
He inhaled. Felt the air fill his lungs. Exhaled.
After a few moments, he gave up and went back to tapping the steering wheel with his fingertips, setting a nervous rhythm. He turned on the radio, hoping to clear his mind, though he didn’t manage to relax completely. He stayed alert. Tense.
Watching for any street sign that started with the letter “C.”
Meadow Way.
Wharf Street.
Lotus Lane.
Carova Street.
Carova.
That was his turn.
He pressed the clutch quickly and turned. The street was surrounded by dense trees; even during the day, with some sunlight filtering through the leaves, the place felt dark. Enclosed. He slowed down almost automatically, and then there was no doubt. There it was.
He saw the house sooner than he would have liked. Thanks -or not- to John B and his insistence on describing the colors, he recognized it instantly. The undefined shade of the facade stood out against the darkness. Finally. Finally, he would have answers. Or at least, that was what he kept telling himself to gather the courage.
He parked the car in front of the main door. He stayed there, staring at the front of the house and the small path leading up to it. Crossing it would mean more than just a few simple steps. The engine was still running. A small part of his mind considered the possibility of leaving. Of walking away from all that drama and continuing with his miserable life just as it was.
Pretend that none of this mattered. But deep down -way down- he knew it wouldn’t work. That it would haunt him for the rest of his life if he didn’t do something now.
The engine stopped roaring. The silence was almost deafening. He patted his thighs with both hands and exhaled slowly. His palms were sweaty; he couldn’t help it. He felt like a little kid again. And it was ironic, because he had never felt like that again. He wasn’t even sure he remembered what that was supposed to feel like.
When he stepped out of the car, something clicked in his mind. He realized he was alive. And that he was there. That he was about to return, if only for an instant, to a past he had been forced to forget.
Every step echoed in his head, loud. Like the tick-tock of a clock marking a countdown. The exact seconds before crashing, inevitably, into a wall.
He knocked on the wood three times, and Rafe could almost hear, inside his head, the trumpets of the apocalypse.
There was movement on the other side of the door, and that unsettled him even more. It meant it was real. That it wasn’t something pulled from his imagination.
The doorknob turned and Rafe stumbled back five steps at once. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The woman who opened the door froze when she saw him, her mouth slightly open, words caught in her throat.
Rafe felt a physical knot in his stomach, so intense that for a second he thought he might throw up.
She had recognized him.
How could she not? On that side of the island, everyone knew Ward Cameron’s son, heir, privileged, first-class elitist.
The woman took a few steps outside, wiping her hands on the dirty cloth hanging from her side, then carefully closed the door behind her, as if she wanted to keep the inside of the house safe.
“Cameron boy, what brings you to this side of the island?”
What she really wanted to ask was what brought him to her house, but she already had a suspicion she didn’t like.
“G-good afternoon, Mrs. Arden,”
Rafe clasped his hands in front of his body, almost at his lap.
And then she stopped seeing Ward’s son.
She was able to see her daughter’s friend again.
The little blond boy who had entered her house only once and had drunk hot chocolate sitting on her couch. The boy she was tired of hearing about every time she saw her daughter. A boy who had been very unlucky with the family he was born into.
“I’m looking f-for your,” he took a deep breath and met her eyes, “daughter.”
The woman blinked, and the gears in her mind began to turn, trying to figure out what Rafe could possibly want from her daughter after so many years. For a second, worry tightened in her chest. She thought of shady business, of debts that weren’t hers, of trouble with kooks that always ended badly.
“Is everything okay?” she stepped a few paces closer.
Rafe immediately stepped back.
“Y-yes, yes!” he raised his hands in a defensive, almost pleading gesture. “I just- I just want to talk to her.” he stayed with his mouth slightly open, as if he were about to add something else, but the words didn’t come. She watched him in silence, attentive, searching his face for any sign that might confirm or deny her fears. “Nothing happened. Really.”
The woman held his gaze. She didn’t fully trust Rafe. She didn’t know why, after so much time, this situation was happening. Rafe had a reputation to be wary of, one he had built from a young age. Even so, she wasn’t afraid of a teenage–young adult. At most, she felt respect. Respect for the weight of the Cameron name and for the way that family knew how to pull the island’s strings.
Her eyes assessed him carefully, as if the longer she looked at him, the more she could see beyond what he was saying. Or what he was keeping quiet.
“And what is this-” she lifted and dropped her shoulders, “-that you need to talk to her about?”
Rafe swallowed.
“I j-just-” he ran his tongue over his lips, nervous. “I just need to see her. Tell her something. Nothing bad, I swear.”
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if that might convince her.
The woman narrowed her eyes slightly. She scoffed under her breath, more tired than angry, trapped in a situation she hadn’t asked for. Her husband wasn’t going to believe this.
“A lot of time has passed, Rafe. And-” she sighed, fidgeting with the cloth in her hands, “-it was shocking for me. I don’t even want to imagine what it was like for her.”
She searched the boy’s eyes. She wanted him to understand. She wanted to feel at ease, to make sure he wasn’t going to do something stupid that none of them could undo afterward.
“I just-” she paused briefly, “-just want you to know that I don’t care if you’re a Cameron, a Kennedy, or the fucking Queen of England. If anything happens, after everything that’s already happened, you’re a dead man.”
She smiled tensely, without humor. It was a warning. A warning born out of fear and love.
The silence that followed was brief, but dense. Rafe didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He didn’t insist. He wanted to nod. He wanted to tell her he understood. He wanted to tell her everything that had happened. That he wouldn’t do anything other than want to hug her daughter. That he needed to see her to confirm she was real. That he wasn’t losing his mind.
But he didn’t say anything.
“She’s not-” she finally said, sighing, “she’s not home. Not since this morning.”
Rafe felt something loosen in his chest, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. It wasn’t complete relief, but it was enough.
“Do you- do you know where I might find her?”
The woman hesitated. She turned her face over her shoulder, toward the inside of the house, as if searching for an excuse to escape the conversation. Then she looked back at him, a tired determination in her eyes.
“She’s probably at the beach,” she answered, thinking for a few more moments. “She usually goes around Duck’s Cottage, you know? The café.”
Rafe nodded immediately, almost automatically, as if he feared the information might vanish if he didn’t grab onto it fast enough. He started walking backward, without fully turning his back, until he gently bumped into the car. A small, nervous, involuntary smile spread across his face.
“Thank you, Mrs. Arden. Thank you.”
“You’ve been warned, Cameron!” she raised her voice just a little as she watched the boy get into the vehicle. “Damn it.”
The door closed, the engine roared back to life, and she stayed there for a few more seconds, the cloth clenched in her hands, wondering if she had just dug at an old wound or if, at last, all of this would finally come to an end.
The air inside the car had grown heavy. Rafe didn’t know if it was his imagination, but it felt harder and harder to breathe. He rolled all four windows down just a few inches, searching for fresh air; instead, his nose ran straight into the salty smell of the sea, and that made it worse. His stomach clenched instantly.
He was getting close.
He was driving along the same road he’d taken before, VA Dare Trail, but in the opposite lane. He knew there were only a few streets left. He felt the heat gather at the back of his neck, a shiver run down his spine, and he had to swallow several times because his mouth had gone dry.
He heard it before he could see it.
The sea.
His heart gave a sharp, almost painful jolt. On the corner, the old building appeared, worn down by time but still cared for, with a duck logo hanging beside the doors. He braked harder than necessary and rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a few seconds. He needed to pull himself together. He took a deep breath. Once. Twice.
He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure that finding her would solve any puzzle in his mind, or that the answers he was looking for were still there. But he had to try. Even if it meant setting aside his prejudices. And that was really fucking hard.
He opened the door and got out.
He felt the grains of sand crunch under his shoes and crossed the street toward the beach access. The waves were rising; when they crashed against the shore, they boomed loudly, a sound that vibrated in his chest. The clouds, which had been gray before, had now turned almost black. It was going to rain.
Even so, the sun seemed to float over the horizon, and the sky opened into a strange mix of colors he rarely saw on his side of the island. Too beautiful for the knot he felt in his stomach.
He followed the rocky path that led him toward the shore and looked to both sides. He was looking for something. Anything that would spark his curiosity, that would push him forward without thinking too much. To one side, large rocks formed a kind of wall; at their base, a few dry logs served as makeshift benches.
He stopped. He decided to sit down.
He needed to recap what was happening, to organize the thoughts piling up in his mind. The wind cooled his skin, but it wasn’t enough to calm him.
She was on the other side of the rocks.
The past few days had been an emotional roller coaster. She had decided to talk to her parents about the misfortune that had happened to them and about how she planned to look for a steady job. No more small jobs, the kind where she helped Kie at the restaurant or a neighbor tidy up their house. She wanted money. She needed money. She wanted to truly help her family.
She even thought about moving to New York to live with her grandparents and work for them. At the very least, she’d earn more. She’d be far away, yes, and maybe she’d only come back for the holidays. The idea tightened her chest, but she still considered it. She had to do something. She couldn’t stay with her arms crossed, waiting for things to get better on their own.
Her parents didn’t take it well.
They wanted to see her finish high school, an achievement they had never been able to reach themselves. They dreamed of giving her a better life, of making sure she lacked nothing, that her biggest worries would be deciding what to wear or where to go out that night. Instead, their daughter stayed late washing dishes at The Wreck, her hands wrinkled from the water and exhaustion weighing on her back. Studying late, and sleeping only a few hours, if she managed to fall asleep at all.
She had decided to stop writing.
It took long conversations with her friend Aaliyah to fully let go of Whispers. Or at least everything that came with it. She felt drained, empty. She was tired of abandonment being the only feeling capable of turning into sad poems about her childhood friend. She didn’t want her art to revolve around him. She didn’t want to think that she was good for nothing except writing about his absence.
He wasn’t her muse. He had only been the first one.
And it was time to let him go.
It was also time to head back home. The first raindrops fell on her head, so she stood up, grabbed her torn, dirty duffel bag, and pulled up the hood of her jacket. She walked toward the path that led her to Duck’s, where she’d left her bike. She wanted to get back before the weather really got worse.
Rafe saw her first.
She passed by him quickly, almost running, escaping the rain falling from the sky. He didn’t care about getting wet.
His voice got stuck in his throat.
He wasn’t sure it was her. It could’ve been anyone. But something tightened in his chest.
He had nothing to lose by trying.
“Hey, uh-”
She turned around with a distracted smile, almost automatic. For a second, she seemed kind. Then she recognized him. Any trace of friendliness vanished immediately, and Rafe could see her body tense. Her grip on the bag tightened and she took a couple of steps back. Defensive.
“Cameron.”
What the hell?
The first thing that crossed her mind was that she was dreaming.
Or that her tired, treacherous mind was playing a cruel trick on her.
Rafe Cameron didn’t belong on that side of the island. He didn’t belong in her refuge. He was a stain, completely out of place.
Her stomach clenched suddenly, as if her body had reacted before her mind. She felt heat in her chest and, at the same time, cold in her hands. Her heart started pounding fast, uneven.
Too many years had passed, and yet she could recognize even his voice from a distance.
But having him right in front of her felt unreal.
His eyes were darker than in the photos she kept on her desk. His cheeks no longer had freckles, they weren’t round anymore, nor did they look soft. His face no longer naturally carried joy; now there was something hard in his features, something intimidating. His brow was always furrowed, his jaw tense, as if he were always ready to fight.
She knew the boy she had once known no longer existed.
And that hurt more than anything else.
She had experienced firsthand the sharp tongue Rafe could have when he wanted to. He hated her. And not in a personal way, she knew that whatever had happened in the past held no real importance for him. Rafe simply hated the kind of person she was. Her life. Her home. Her friendships. He hated workers.
That’s why she didn’t understand what he was doing there, standing in front of her, risking being seen with a pogue. With that pogue, who had once been his friend.
For a moment, an unpleasant thought crossed her mind: maybe he had come out of fear. Fear that she might say something.
But to who?
It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous that after so many years something could come to light.
“I-”
“What are you doing here?”
She looked around her surroundings, paranoid. She didn’t want to be seen with him either. Dear God, out of her pogue friends only Kiara knew what had happened in her childhood. A simple distraction and the girl was already snooping through the albums she had on the shelf. And she’d simply had to tell her, but made her swear by the seven seas that she wouldn’t say a word to anyone.
“I just wanted to talk.”
It was her. It was her and she was standing in front of him. And her eyes were looking at him. And he could feel her voice so close it filled his chest. It was her and she had been his friend.
“Talk?” her tone showed disbelief. She shook her head and continued on her way. “Go and leave me alone, Cameron. Whatever problem you have, sort it out among yourselves.”
She had come to the conclusion that something else had happened. Maybe there had been a fight. JJ was always getting into trouble with the kooks, and it wouldn’t surprise her if once again he’d done something that made them snap. She knew Rafe and she knew men; she knew they were capable of anything just to keep their egos from getting bruised.
“Among yourselves?”
She had already moved a few steps ahead, ending the conversation before it had really begun.
He couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t. God, he couldn’t.
The movement was instinctive. Before thinking it through, Rafe grabbed her arm. The gesture was clumsy, desperate. One of the bag’s straps slipped off her shoulder and the weight fell to one side.
She turned around immediately, furious.
“Don’t touch me or I swear I’ll scream-”
“I just wanted to see you.”
“You’ve seen me. Happy?”
Yes. Yes, he was very happy.
Just as he was about to nod, she pulled herself free from his grip with a sharp tug and kept walking. The contact had lasted barely a second, but it was enough. His heart was exploding in his chest. She’d been scared. Only God knew what Rafe wanted from her, and she’d rather die with the question than stay to hear him out.
She’d taken barely two more steps when his voice reached her.
“I know you’re Polaroid.”
Her knees nearly buckled completely. She begged heaven and earth that she had heard wrong, because if she hadn’t, she didn’t know what she was going to do. The words hung in the air. She didn’t turn around right away. For one eternal second she thought she’d misheard. That her mind was playing tricks on her.
That name wasn’t supposed to exist outside her small world.
She would lie.
Slowly, she turned around with an expression of confusion.
“What?”
Her grip on the bag tightened, so much that her knuckles went pale.
Rafe jogged toward her, awkwardly.
“I know it’s you,” he said once he was at her side, breathing hard. “I swear I won’t say-”
She turned just slightly, enough to fix him with a cold stare.
“I am not that girl,” she cut him off before he could finish, her voice low. He couldn’t know that. He shouldn’t. She adjusted the bag on her shoulder and took a step to go around him. “Now leave me alone.”
Rafe moved with her, not to stop her, but to keep pace, turning his body just enough not to lose sight of her. His eyes held onto her, intense, as if he were afraid she might disappear if he blinked.
“Then who have I been talking to these past few days, huh?”
“There are a lot of scammers these days, Cameron,” she replied, shrugging slightly. “Be careful.”
“Don’t fuck with me.” he shook his head, running a hand over his face. His body looked exhausted, as if he’d just run a marathon. “I just want to talk, I swear. I-I won’t tell anyone, I don’t even want to talk about that, I just want-”
“I don’t understand you, Rafe. I don’t know what you want from me,” she interrupted, crossing her arms over her body in a defensive, incredulous gesture.
“I want to talk.”
“We are talking.”
“No, I-” he fell silent for a second, searching for the right words, for something to say that would make her believe him. “I want to understand.”
She opened her eyes just a bit wider and raised her eyebrows. Confusion showed clearly on her face. Her mouth moved as if she were going to say something, but nothing came out. Just a sigh, heavy with exhaustion.
“Understand what?”
“Us.”
She let out a short, dry laugh, without humor. She covered her face with both hands, shaking her head.
“What us?”
“We were friends… what happened?”
“Mm, let me think-” she murmured, as if she were actually searching for the answer. “Funny. I asked myself that same thing for years.”
Rafe frowned, taking half a step closer without realizing it.
“Why?”
“Why?” she looked at him then, straight on, her eyes hard. “You should know.”
“I just-” Rafe shook his head. Was there something else he didn’t remember? Maybe, in the end, he was the one who pushed her away. “I don’t remember.”
“And what am I supposed to do about that? Help you remember your life?”
Rafe opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it again, took a deep breath, like the air wasn’t enough. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down for a second, lost.
“No-” he said softly. “That’s not what I want-”
His voice trembled and he scoffed. His lips were red and chapped from biting them so much. He didn’t want to look at her, couldn’t look at her. He knew his eyes were red, they burned, and he could feel that knot in his stomach that came right before crying. He couldn’t cry.
“I just don’t understand,” he admitted, almost in a whisper. “I feel like- like something’s missing, and you’re the only one I think might understand.”
He pressed his fingers to his temple, desperate.
“I-I talked to my dad, and I-I looked for photos I couldn’t find, but Sarah- Sarah mentioned you, and I went to the treehouse, and then I saw the picture on the blog and it was me, but-but I don’t get it! Because you’re here-” he gestured at her, head to toe, completely bewildered “-and I know you. But you’re missing from my mind. I don’t see you, but I feel you. I feel like you were there, and I remember how it felt. But I can’t see you. And I don’t know why.”
His shoulders slumped, defeated.
“And it hurts.” his voice broke.
She had the urge to touch his arm, but she couldn’t. He was still like looking at a stranger wearing the shape of the boy she once adored.
The rain came down harder than before. Neither of them moved. It wasn’t worth it anymore, they were already soaked, their clothes clinging to their bodies. The world around them seemed to shrink down to that stretch of beach.
She thought she should run. Thought about her bike, her house, her friends. But her body didn’t respond. She stayed there, watching him, trying to memorize Rafe’s face in case this was the last time she’d ever get to see him this close.
He had a distant look in his eyes. Water ran down his hair, over his eyelashes, and he couldn’t tell whether it was the rain or his own tears.
“You never came back home,” he finally said, his voice broken. “Not after-”
“Nobody wanted me there, Rafe.”
He shook his head immediately, his hair sticking to his forehead even more. He took a step toward her, stumbling on the heavy sand.
“I did. I wanted you there.”
She shook her head, incredulous. Her heart ached a little.
“Don’t lie. You didn’t-”
“Didn’t what?” his voice rose, desperate. “Do you think I didn’t want my only friend with me when my mother died?” his hands ached to touch her, to feel her skin and know she was still there, listening to him. “When my father was filling my head with the idea that now it was my turn to be the man of the house? To be a kid acting like an adult to take care of my sisters?” he swallowed. His chest hurt. “Of course I wanted you there.”
She felt something sink in her stomach. She had spent years believing one version of that story. A version she had managed to overcome and move on from. But now, something didn’t add up.
“But your father-”
“What?” Rafe frowned. “My father what?”
The rain streamed down their faces, mixing with their ragged breathing. She looked at the ground, her head spinning, and felt sick. It was too much. Too much after so long with nothing.
“Your father told me you didn’t want to see me,” she confessed, lowering her voice. “I-I went to your house. A few days later.” she looked at him, searching for answers. Searching for something that would make sense of it all. “And I-I brought you flowers,” because I knew how much you liked flowers, “and your father, he told me I couldn’t come back. That I shouldn’t bother you.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Rafe felt something click into place, tied to the conversation he’d had with his father that day. His father would always find a way to be Ward Cameron. To screw him over, if he had to.
“I never said that,” he murmured so softly she could barely hear him over the sound of the sea mixed with the rain.
“And I believed him! Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?” she lifted her face, and Rafe was close. Breathing the same air as her. “He was your father, and he knew you, and I understood it! I understood him asking that of me. That’s why I left you alone. You had lost your mother, and I understood. I didn’t want you to feel more bothered than you already must have felt.”
Rafe shook his head; fragments of memories surfaced in his mind, disjointed. He squeezed his eyes shut. It had all been a misunderstanding. A fucking misunderstanding that had cost him his own sanity. A trap disguised as a misunderstanding. Because the one responsible had a clear conscience, because his plan had worked perfectly, and he hadn’t cared that the price was his own son’s stability.
“I just wanted my friend. And I feel like you were the only real thing I ever had in my life. And still, you didn’t exist for me for a long time. I lost you, and I don’t want to do that again. You mattered to me- you matter.”
He ran a hand through his wet hair, restless, as if he didn’t know what to do with his own body. He took another step closer without realizing it. He was so close. Her eyes were clear now. He could store her face in his memory and swore he wouldn’t forget it this time. That he wouldn’t forget her eyes, that he would remember how it felt and what it was like to have her beside him.
She stayed still.
No. Not now. She had already decided. She had already buried it. She had spent six hours on the phone with Aaliyah, for God’s sake; she had to turn the page.
The rain weighed down on her hood and she pulled it off roughly. She felt hot. A knot tightened in her chest. She had spent too long convincing herself she didn’t need him, that that chapter was closed. That she had finally let him go. And now Rafe was there, looking at her as if the stars hung from her hands.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” she finally said. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Rafe. It’s just that- saying it now doesn’t erase what happened. It doesn’t erase what I felt. It doesn’t erase what you went through.”
He nodded immediately. His shoulders sank a little; he had expected it. He knew those words would come.
“I-I know. I don’t want to erase it.”
His hands hung at his sides, tense. His fingers opened and closed, nervous. He didn’t know what to do with them.
“I just- needed you to know. I needed to know that I didn’t imagine you, that you were real.”
Don’t look at me like that, she thought. She couldn’t break.
“I got used to being nobody in your life,” she said. “To living as if I were nothing.” she looked straight at him, forcing herself not to let her guard down. “I can’t change that overnight.”
“I don’t want you to,” he replied quickly, shaking his head. “I really don’t.”
He tilted his face slightly, almost bumping noses, their breaths mixing.
“I just… wanted you to know that if you had never disappeared from my mind, everything would be different.”
She wanted to believe him. She really did- if only to heal that part of herself that had carried resentment for feeling invisible and humiliated for so long.
“What would be different?”
“Us.”
“Us?” incredulity echoed in her voice. “Do you think we would have stayed friends? That you would’ve given up the privileges of your last name for me?” she shook her head and leaned back slightly to look at him, searching for hope in Rafe’s eyes. “Sooner or later it would’ve happened. Nothing would’ve been different.”
“Yes, it would have. If-if I had- I would have changed.”
“No, Rafe. You wouldn’t have changed, and that’s okay,” she said stiffly. “Because it already happened. And nothing can be changed now.”
“I wish I could change it.” Rafe sniffed, his gaze fixed on the seawater soaking his feet. “I wish I could fully remember Mom. Remember you. I wish none of this had happened. I wish I were-”
He ran out of air.
Rafe didn’t remember his mother.
The thought hit her like a blunt blow.
The rain began to fall harder, pounding the sand, the sea, his shoulders. He didn’t move. He dragged a hand down his face, frustrated, as if he could erase himself with the gesture.
“I was messed up… I am messed up,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I’m an idiot and I probably always will be. I’m sorry I hurt you. I-I never meant to cause you any sorrow.”
“It’s okay, I-”
She sighed and gathered enough courage to touch him.
She placed her hand on his shoulder and left it there, unmoving. Rafe felt his knees weaken at that small, devastating gesture.
“It’s such a shame our friendship had to end,” she murmured. “I would’ve liked to grow up by your side.”
Rafe’s hair was long now; dark strands clung to his soaked neck. It was a temptation she couldn’t indulge in anymore. It was too late.
“You were a good boy, Rafe,” she continued softly. “You were my friend. My best one. But now.”
Her hand trembled before she pulled it away quickly, as if she’d burned herself. As if the reminder that this Rafe was no longer hers had hurt her.
“You’re a stranger. I don’t know you anymore… and you don’t know me.” she swallowed, avoiding his sad eyes. “And I’m not sure that-”
She stopped to breathe, to steady herself.
“I’m not sure I want to get to know you again. To get to know this Rafe. And I’d like-”
She cleared her throat and stepped away from him, from that closeness, from his expectant eyes.
“I’d like to keep the old version of you.”
Rafe nodded. He nodded even though he had never felt more alone.
“I understand.”
Now there was only the rain.
Rafe felt a rush of emotions running through his body, all at once, without order or name. He wanted to tell her a thousand things and, at the same time, say nothing. Just look at her. Save her image. Think.
He wished things had been different. He would have loved to go back, bend time just a little, and think that if only he had run away to see her back then, they wouldn’t be standing there now, soaked, like two strangers. Maybe he wouldn’t hate himself so much. Maybe he would be a different man.
She, on the other hand, only thought about getting home. About seeing her mother. About talking. About confirming she wasn’t crazy for feeling what she felt. She didn’t quite know how to process that encounter, but she did know she didn’t want to sink back into that strange sadness and parasocial feeling. She didn’t want to believe that Rafe. The one she had struggled so much to accept had changed for the worse.
“Thank you-”
“I should-”
They spoke at the same time.
Rafe smiled, and she felt those six hours of conversation with Aaliyah fade from her mind as if they had never existed. He was beautiful. Beautiful and evil.
He stepped forward. In his eyes there was a gesture, almost a silent question. He didn’t want to seem greedy, didn’t want to ask for too much, but he needed her close. He feared waking up at any moment and discovering it had all been a cruel dream, just another one.
She barely had time to stretch out her arm when Rafe was already upon her.
His arms wrapped tightly around her back, his hands trying to cover as much space as possible, as if afraid she might slip through his fingers. She was there. She was there, and she was real. His fingers closed firmly, needing her.
Rafe buried his face in the hollow of her neck, and she felt his warm breath against her rain-soaked skin. She felt the brush of his eyelashes beneath her ear and how his body trembled against hers. He breathed in once, twice, and the air left him broken. He clung to her as if he hadn’t breathed in his entire life, as if she were the first breath of air filling his lungs.
She held herself together as best she could.
Her hands clenched into fists against the soaked fabric of his shirt. She felt the warmth of his body, his scent, the weight of a memory that intoxicated her, and she didn’t allow herself to think. She didn’t want to think. She let herself stay there, enjoy it for a moment. Just one.
There would be plenty of time to regret it later.
She forced herself to pull away from Rafe after two minutes. Her clothes were already starting to bother her, and the rain showed no sign of stopping. It was a slow separation. They both needed to make sure the other was still there even when they were no longer touching.
Rafe loosened the embrace when he felt the pressure she held against his neck fade, though his arm lingered around her waist for a second longer. His fingers slid over the wet fabric. When he lifted his face, his eyes were red, glassy, and he avoided looking at her right away, as if it were too much. He swallowed. His breathing still hadn’t found a steady rhythm.
She took a step back, just enough to catch her breath. Her chest felt tight, her throat closed. She didn’t cry. She wasn’t going to. But her hands still trembled slightly, betraying her. She adjusted the bag on her shoulder and lowered her gaze for a second before lifting it again.
The sound of the rain filled the space between them. The sea was still there, insistent.
“I-” she started, then stopped. She frowned, searching for the right words. “I have things. Photos.” she looked up at him, gauging his reaction. “Old ones. Some are yours. Others-” she hesitated. “I also have videos. With your mom. You can come get them at my house.”
Rafe lifted his head sharply. For a moment, he seemed not to understand, as if his mind needed an extra second to process it. His lips parted, and he nodded almost immediately, with an urgency he didn’t try to hide.
“Yes,” he said, his voice low, broken. “Yes, please.”
She nodded too, more slowly. She wasn’t promising anything beyond that. She wasn’t promising to stay, to start over, or to forgive. Just that.
“Whenever you want,” she added. “But not today.”
Rafe accepted the condition without argument. He knew it was already a lot.
She took a couple of steps back, the rain tracing small paths down her face. She looked at him one last time, as if wanting to make sure that moment stayed exactly where it belonged: in the present.
“Take care, Rafe.”
His time was up.
“You too.”
They stood there, looking at each other for one more moment, as if neither wanted to be the first to leave. Then she turned on her heels and began to walk away.
jo's notes: this is the end lovies. writing this fic was so therapeutic that I even closed chapters of my life that were a huge inspiration for whispers of the sea. I want to thank you all for the support you’ve shown me over this past year and a bit. truly, there are so many kind people on tumblr, and I’m incredibly grateful that you chose to read my silly little fic. much love to all of you. I’m taking a break (not a long one), but I’ll be back with more.
and yes, there will be extra chapters of whispers of the sea, aka echoes of us.
all my love. I love you.
Jo.
│whispers of the sea / echoes of us has a taglist! if you want to be added, let me know and keep interacting with the posts to stay on it!
│WARNINGS・+18, strong language, alcohol use, smoking, mental instability, mental illness, insecurities, no use of y/n. third person perspective. lmk if im missing something. enjoy.
│summary・"Whispers of the Sea" breathes life into forgotten memories through wistful poems and hidden truths. Drawn to it's words, Rafe finds himself chasing echoes of a past he can’t fully recall. The anonymous blogger is the childhood friend forgotten in time. Rafe searches for the pieces of a forgotten puzzle, trying to make sense of the storm brewing in his mind, while his heart fills with the poems of the girl he once adored.
│pairing・Ex-childhoodfriend!Rafe Cameron x Poet/Blogger!Female oc/reader
Prince · Purple Rain · Song · 1984
Only two days had passed.
For Rafe, it felt like half a lifetime.
He hadn’t been able to fall asleep on either of those nights. He tossed and turned in bed until the sky began to lighten, his eyes burning and his body exhausted. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that girl’s face. It was blurry, incomplete, like an old, badly focused Polaroid.
He wasn’t sure if he remembered her voice, her laugh, or even the exact color of her eyes. In truth, he wasn’t sure of anything.
Everything felt strange, unreal.
Like a bad joke one of his friends might have played on him, except this one was happening inside his head, and there was no way out of that.
Sometimes he thought he would suddenly wake up and everything would disappear. But it didn’t. He felt like he was trapped inside a movie. One where the answers were right in front of him, almost within reach, but something was holding him back. He just had to gather the courage. He just had to dare.
And still, he was afraid. He was so afraid. Afraid of talking to his father. Afraid of what he might find if he dug too deep. Afraid he wouldn’t like the truth. Afraid of discovering that there were things that couldn’t be fixed. And afraid that he had fallen into madness. That all of this was a product of his imagination. That others would realize he was crazy.
How was it possible for something like this to happen?
How was it possible to forget someone?
Not just forgetting her face or her voice, but forgetting her completely. Not even remembering her as a small moment in his life. A tiny, temporary bond he shared in childhood. One of those things you assume are impossible to erase entirely.
But there was nothing.
It was a blank.
As if she had never been there.
As if that part of his life had been torn out. A gap. An entire fragment of existence vanished from his memory. He had no physical proof. He had nothing to anchor him to reality. Nothing to confirm that what his confused mind was showing him wasn’t just an invention.
So what was real and what wasn’t?
What could he trust if his memories were failing him?
What other things were slipping away?
What people, what moments, what places were also erased from his mind without him knowing?
The thought froze him from the inside.
If that had been possible once, what else could have disappeared without a trace?
How was it possible for something like that to happen?
He doubted himself.
His room was filled with the photographs he had taken of his father’s office. How many other memories had he lost without realizing it? How many moments had vanished?
He thought about his mother.
He thought about how the day she died was tattooed into his mind. It was cruel. He remembered how she had gotten worse in the afternoon. He remembered going into the room, telling her good night. He remembered how she pulled him against her lap before he went to bed.
A few hours later, his own father woke him up. From that moment on, he never slept again.
He was awake when the sun began to rise. He was awake when the morning turned into a gray landscape.
People came in and out of the house. And he didn’t move from the living room. He couldn’t. He was wearing a suit. A tie that was too tight around his neck, as if the situation weren’t already suffocating enough.
He remembered asking his father something.
He doesn’t remember exactly what it was, he only knows it was enough to make him snap. He remembers the shout, loud and sharp, in front of his uncles. He remembers the awkward silence that came afterward.
And he also remembers spending the rest of the day locked in his room, crying.
He was sad for a long time. So long that the days began to feel the same. And then, as if entire chapters had been skipped, he was already a preteen. He was already friends with Kelce and Topper.
He was repeating the same story over and over, with missing parts. Incomplete.
From a distance, he heard the cry of a seagull and realized he had spent another night awake.
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. They burned. They felt heavy. He couldn’t stand feeling like this anymore. He was exhausted. He felt desolate.
And so alone.
That morning, when he found his lost photo albums with Sarah, he realized that no one understood him. Not even his sister.
She didn’t understand why this was so important to him.
Why could a few lost photos hurt so much?
Why did not remembering a girl make him feel like his heart was breaking into pieces?
He didn’t have those answers either.
Or at least, not all of them.
He only knew that it hurt. That he had cried uncontrollably, his chest tight from feeling lost inside himself. But how could he explain it? If he couldn’t even fully understand it himself.
Maybe that was why he was so changeable sometimes. Why he had never felt completely understood.
Because something was missing in him.
A piece of who he was that would make everything fall into place.
Her.
He heard noises downstairs. The house was waking up, and that meant the people inside it were waking up too. He knew Wheezie would sleep for a couple more hours. Sarah, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t be there that morning. She probably hadn’t even slept there that night.
He kicked the sheets away from his feet, clumsy and weighed down by exhaustion. The air in the room felt heavy, as if it were hard to breathe even while being alone in it. He debated what would be best.
If he went downstairs now, it was very likely he would run into his father. And if he was honest with himself, he didn’t feel stable enough to face him. Or to face what it meant to be in the same space as him.
The mere thought tightened his stomach. Being close to his father always brought something else with it.
He turned over in bed and stretched his arm toward the nightstand. He grabbed the cigarette almost blindly, with clumsy movements, and barely managed to light it with the lighter that was screaming to be replaced. The spark failed a couple of times before it finally caught.
He inhaled, trying to somehow fill the emptiness pressing against his chest.
He inhaled again, as if the thick smoke slipping into his lungs could fix everything that was happening inside his head.
The burn scraped his throat. The bitter taste clung to his tongue. He felt a sharp pain behind his eyes, constant and insistent. His eyelids struggled to close, heavy and tired, but sleep never quite came.
Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.
He had lost count of how many cigarettes he’d smoked, maybe the fourth, when there was a knock on his bedroom door. He sat upright in bed, his body tense, and quickly crushed the glowing ember into the ashtray.
“Rafe?”
Sarah’s voice loosened something in his chest.
“Yeah?”
His voice came out rough, as if he hadn’t used it in days.
“Just checking on you,” she said. “How did you sleep?”
Rafe watched her head peek through the doorway, her eyes scanning the room. It was a mess. Clothes scattered across the floor, drawers half open, empty cigarette packs. It looked like a hurricane had swept through the Outer Banks, one that had only hit his bedroom.
“Good,” he lied without thinking. Then he spoke more quietly. “Uh, I’m alright, Sarah. The other day was…” He made a vague gesture with his hand and lowered his gaze to his lap. “It was nothing.”
Sarah didn’t react right away. She didn’t nod. She didn’t smile. She didn’t contradict him.
She just watched him.
“Sure,” she said at last, glancing down the hallway before looking back at him. “Dad’s gone, in case you wanted to know.”
Rafe lifted his head, his eyes more alert now.
“Great.”
His sister sighed, aware that she wasn’t going to get anything more out of her brother. From one day to the next, Rafe had stopped acting like her brother. It was like living with a stranger in her own house, someone with the same face, but completely different.
“I’m leaving,” Sarah said, making a small gesture toward the door with her head. “Text me. Or call me. If you need anything.”
Rafe turned his face slightly toward the window and let out a low sound, almost imperceptible. A tired okay, with no desire to dig any deeper into Sarah’s concern for him.
Sarah understood. She didn’t insist. She didn’t say anything else. She closed the door carefully behind her as her footsteps faded down the hallway.
Rafe sighed again, longer this time. He was left alone with the silence of the room and the noise inside his head.
And now what?
The idea crossed his mind to look for some kind of proof. Some minimal sign that would confirm he wasn’t crazy. That he hadn’t made it all up. That something strange had really happened.
But where?
The photos, the only things that might have shown him even a fragment of the truth, were already gone. And talking to his father wasn’t an option. Not now. Maybe never.
Sarah had been too young back then, and besides… why would she have photos with a girl who had only been his friend?
He thought about a nanny. About someone who had been around enough to be aware of what his life was like back then. But the idea sounded forced, almost desperate. He didn’t remember any names. Any faces. And asking his father about old nannies was, in some way, even worse than asking him about her.
His grandparents had died and-
That was it.
His grandparents’ house. The treehouse.
It felt like he’d flown the whole way there.
The drive passed in a blur; he barely registered anything until he parked the car in front of the house. When he looked up, something tightened in his chest and a suffocating feeling washed over him. He had spent too much time in that place when his mother got sick. She hadn’t wanted her children to see her bedridden. She didn’t want to be remembered like that.
He didn’t have the keys.
His hands were shaking as he started climbing the fence that enclosed the backyard at the front of the house, the same place where his grandfather used to park the car. When he dropped down on the other side, he felt the brush of tall grass against his legs. No one really took care of the place anymore.
As he walked toward the large tree in the middle of the yard, he felt the weight of the world settle onto his back. Each step grew slower, heavier. That piece of rotting wood was his last hope. The last chance to convince himself that he wasn’t losing his mind, that what he’d been living through these past few days wasn’t a psychotic break in disguise.
He eyed the planks nailed to the trunk with distrust. There were only about four of them, covering barely a meter, but even so, they had never been replaced. They were old and warped.
He placed his foot on the first one and it gave way under his weight, making him stumble. His heart jumped, but he reacted quickly: he climbed the rest almost on instinct, without thinking too much, and ended up sitting on the small platform resting on a thick branch.
He looked down.
And smiled, just a little.
It wasn’t as high as he remembered.
He turned his head and there it was. Beside him. The castle.
It no longer had a door, and one of the windows was missing the curtain his grandmother had once sewn. He almost had to crawl to get inside. The movement felt strange. Like being inside a clumsy trip through space and time. Everything was smaller now, more insignificant in front of his adult eyes.
The floor was covered in dry leaves, and thin, abandoned spiderwebs stretched into every corner. He recognized some drawings taped to the walls instantly. They were his. He knew it even before seeing the signature: little Rafe written beneath each one, in childish handwriting. The paper, once white, had yellowed. In some of them, the colors were faded. He peeled them off one by one, carefully, so they wouldn’t deteriorate any further.
He spotted a few crumpled papers among the leaves. He opened the first ones and found only scribbles, the kind you make when you start drawing and halfway through you already know it won’t turn out the way you imagined.
The last one was hidden beneath a pile of dry leaves.
That one wasn’t his.
He studied it closely, as if he could force his mind to wake up. Expectant.
But he wasn’t sure.
The stick figures were nicer than the ones he used to draw, and there were hearts. And he didn’t draw hearts, he drew flowers. Always flowers.
Maybe Sarah had drawn it during one of her getaways, back when neither of them were around.
If she even existed.
Resigned, he let himself drop down to the ground in a single jump. The impact hurt his knees, but he barely registered it.
And now what?
He had to go back home. He had to confront the only one who might know the truth. He had to face his father.
The drive home felt endless. The drawings in his pockets were a reminder that he hadn’t found anything up there. That there was no proof. His head was a mess.
The hypothetical thought that he might be losing his mind had stopped being so hypothetical, and it was starting to worry him.
He knew what was coming when he turned onto his street.
His father’s car was there. Parked in front of the house.
When he tried to give himself a few minutes to think, it was already too late. He was still sitting in the car, engine off, staring ahead without really seeing anything. He hesitated to get out; he knew exactly what that meant. If his father was right in front of him, he wouldn’t be able to hold it in. He wouldn’t be able to pretend everything was normal. He wouldn’t be able not to ask.
He thought about going to Kelce’s. Or Topper’s. Or anywhere else, really. Any place that wasn’t that.
He looked back at the house and felt his body go cold when he met his father’s eyes watching him from inside.
He clenched his jaw and got out of the car. His hands buried deep in his pockets, gripping the crumpled papers still there. The reminder.
He went in as slowly as he could. Why was Ward there? He was supposed to be at work. He squeezed his eyes shut when he heard noises in the dining room. He was right there. In the other room. If he walked past and went upstairs, he would see him, and he would call out to him, and they would have to talk, and Rafe really didn’t want that.
“Rafe?”
Damn it.
“Hey,” he replied, moving toward where the voice was coming from.
Ward was there, standing in the middle of the room, watching him as if he’d been waiting for him for a while. The Grim Reaper.
“Hey, son,” he greeted with a slight nod before turning and walking toward the kitchen. “Where were you?”
Rafe swallowed.
Should he tell him the truth?
Should he tell him that he’d gone to his late grandparents’ house, jumped the fence, and climbed up into a barely standing treehouse to look for the smallest bit of proof that he wasn’t losing his mind?
“I-I,” he took a deep breath and braced himself to be committed. “I went to Pops’s place.”
Ward stopped. He turned slowly, curious. His eyes narrowed as he assessed him, as if he still didn’t know where the conversation was headed.
“Pops’s place?” he repeated, sitting down on one of the island stools. “But you don’t have a key.”
Rafe nodded slightly, not looking at him.
“No.”
There was a short silence. Dense.
“So?” Ward asked, resting his forearms on the counter. “How did you get in?”
Rafe felt his pulse pounding at his temples.
“I—uh, I jumped the fence,” he sniffed, looking off to the side. He was scared as hell.
Ward raised an eyebrow.
“You jumped the f-?” he laughed and kept talking. “You stayed locked in the backyard doing what?”
His own question seemed to answer itself.
Now his expression was serious. All the humor was gone, the kind he’d had when he imagined his son jumping the fence of his childhood home.
“Why did you go there?”
Rafe hesitated.
“I was looking for old stuff a-and I remembered the treehouse and just-” he let out a humorless laugh. “I thought about going to see it.”
Ward ran his tongue over his teeth.
“What were you looking for?”
Rafe looked at him, brow furrowed. He started to think that maybe his father did know about his missing memories.
“Just- stuff,” he shrugged.
Ward stood up and stepped closer.
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Who have I been talk-? What the fuck does that mean?”
Rafe was starting to get agitated. His father was acting strange; it felt like he was being interrogated over something insignificant, and that only made him feel crazier.
“You don’t need to worry about old things, son,” he said, turning halfway around as he walked toward the liquor cabinet.
Whiskey.
Rafe confirmed that his father knew what was going on.
“It’s a waste of time. You need to focus on the compa-”
“You have them, don’t you?”
Ward kept talking without looking at him. He took a slow sip from his glass.
“Have what?”
“My things. My photos.”
His father looked at him for a few seconds. Rafe looked just like his mother.
“I don’t have them.”
It was true. Rafe’s albums were on the other side of the island, in a nice box on a desk that was used every day.
“You’re lying!”
Rafe felt his throat close up; it was almost hard to speak.
“Don’t raise your voice at me!”
His father spilled some of the drink onto the carpet.
Rafe felt a thick heat growing in his chest. His eyes burned, but he wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. What he felt was helplessness. It was confusion. He didn’t understand. No one did. What was happening? Why had they taken away his right to keep things? Why had his childhood been ripped from him? Why was his own mind doing this to him?
“I-” his hands went to his eyes. He rubbed them hard, almost hurting himself, as if he could erase everything that way. “I don’t understand. I- no, I don’t understand.” He shook his head, desperate, searching for some kind of meaning in that absurd situation.
His father set the glass down roughly on the cabinet. The sharp sound echoed through the room before Ward stepped closer and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Rafe, son-” his father searched for his gaze, forcing him to lift his head. “Don’t live in the past,” Ward looked for the words to make him see reason. “Whatever you remembered, or whatever you were looking for- it’s not worth it, okay?” his hand was now at the back of his neck, squeezing. Hurting him. “Listen to me when I’m talking to you,” he said this time through clenched teeth, low, loaded with threat. Rafe shrank under his touch. “It doesn’t matter. Nobo-none of that matters.”
Rafe shook his head.
“B-but I-” he sniffed and kept shaking his head. “I don’t-I don’t remember.”
“Of course you do, son-”
“No,” he cut him off, turning his gaze toward the walls, looking for strength anywhere but him. “I don’t remember anything.”
Ward half-smiled. Barely. That smile that never reached his eyes.
“Then it’s because you don’t need to.”
“But I want to. I want to remember, and it shouldn’t be this hard. And I think I’m losing my mind because-because I can’t sleep. And I can’t remember her.”
“Your mother?” Ward asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “We have plenty of videos of her, son. You don’t need to remember her-”
“Don’t you get it?” Rafe knew he didn’t. “I want my own memory. I want to be able to remember my mother. I want-!” he shoved him away sharply, putting distance between them. “I want to remember what happened to her. And how she died. And I want-I want to be able to remember on my own when I started liking the beach and-and swimming and-” his voice broke with anger “-and how I learned to draw fucking flowers and-and build the treehouse with Pops without having a fucking parrot repeating how it was!”
His father looked at him. It was only an instant, a tiny fraction of a second, before he decided to pour himself more whiskey. Rafe grabbed his head with both hands, fingers digging hard into his hair. He knew it before it happened: his father was going to hit him. And the worst part wasn’t that. The worst part was that afterward, everything would stay the same.
He wouldn’t talk about it again. He wouldn’t be able to. Sarah wouldn’t understand. His friends wouldn’t understand. And his father would hate him a little more.
“You know what I feel, son?” Ward said, turning around with a glass now fuller than before. “I feel like you’re ungrateful. You always were,” he took a big swallow and went on, “and this just confirms it. You had everything. Your whole life-” Ward continued, stepping closer. “And now you’re complaining because you don’t remember watching your mother being fucking sick? Do you really want to remember that?” he moved even closer. Rafe stepped back instinctively until he stumbled against the armchair, his knees hitting the edge. “Does it bother you not remembering the days you wasted with that damn girl instead of being with your mother? I’m very sorry, Rafe. But it’s already too lat-”
There it was.
Finally.
“What girl?”
Rafe felt the air tighten between them, like Ward could strangle him with nothing but a look.
“Are you fucking with me?”
“What girl, Ward?”
His father let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. A laugh with no humor in it at all. He shook his head as he lifted the glass and finished the whiskey in a single gulp. The liquor burned his throat, mixing with the fury he felt.
“I can’t fucking believe this,” he ran his tongue over his lips. “What, you forgot about your little princess too?” his nostrils flared as he stepped closer to Rafe, invading his space. “That damn treehouse she made your poor grandfather build, all those days your mother wanted to spend time with her kids, but no- she was always there.”
For a moment, just a moment, Rafe forgot the way his father was speaking. He forgot the tone. He forgot the violence. There was only one thing left, pounding in his chest with brutal force.
She had existed.
“I never should’ve let that stupid friendship start in the first place,” he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, as if the memory itself gave him a headache. “But no. I decided to listen to your mother.” he exhaled sharply through his nose. “And I knew it. I knew from the beginning she would bring us trouble.” his eyes locked onto Rafe’s. They were glassy. “That whole family is a problem, Rafe. Those fucking pogues. Always begging for help, always trying to look-nice.” he waved a hand, as if the word disgusted him. “But I know who they are. I know every single Arden, and they’re all exactly the same.” he leaned forward slightly. “Even a seven-year-old girl was like that.”
Arden.
The Arden family.
His mind tried to put everything in order, but it couldn’t. The pieces didn’t quite fit. He was still confused. Still dazed.
They were just kids. And his father had hated her.
The Ardens.
He had been friends with a pogue. Had his father hated her for that?
He had the answer he’d been searching for for days. The one that had stolen his sleep, made him doubt his own mind, pushed him to dig through memories he didn’t even know were real. The memories he’d wanted to recover for so long. And still, something didn’t add up.
There was a bitter taste in his mouth. An aftertaste he couldn’t shake, as if the truth hadn’t brought relief but a different kind of emptiness. Why, if he’d gotten what he was looking for, did he feel defeated?
The slam of the door echoed through the house and made him flinch. The sound was sharp. Final. Only then did it sink in that Ward had left. The silence he left behind was thick, but Rafe felt lighter.
What would he do now?
He stood there for a few seconds, not moving, as if his body needed to catch up with his mind. He couldn’t call his friends. He couldn’t just ask if they knew any pogues, let alone a specific family. It would be weird. Suspicious. Pathetic, even.
He thought about the old phone books his grandfather used to keep. But he knew that if they still existed, they’d be outdated. Useless. Just another dead end.
Sarah.
The name surfaced in his mind with unexpected clarity.
He grabbed his phone with trembling hands. Held it for a few seconds longer than necessary before unlocking it. Dialed his sister’s number. The tone rang once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Until she answered.
“Rafe, are you okay?”
Rafe huffed, rolling his eyes in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair and started pacing around the living room, aimless, feeling electricity race through his body.
“Where can I find the Ardens?”
“Are you okay?”
Rafe huffed again and rolled his eyes.
“Yes, Sarah. Where?”
He was impatient. He’d found her. He finally had a name, a family, something real to hold onto. He was one step away from having her standing right in front of him, and his sister was acting like he was on the verge of a breakdown. For God’s sake, he thought.
On the other end, Sarah hesitated.
“W-wait… John B, wh-” her voice drifted away, as if she’d set the phone down in another room. Then it came back, lower, more careful. “Rafe, um… why do you want to find the Ardens?”
“Sarah, I swear to God, if your stupid boyfriend doesn’t tell me where I can find them, I’ll go to his damn house and make him spit-”
“Rafe, God, calm down.”
He couldn’t calm down. Not now. Not after everything that was happening. He felt his chest tighten, his thoughts racing a mile a minute, crashing into each other without order.
Sarah disappeared for a few seconds. Rafe was sure his brother-in-law was insisting on not telling her where he needed to go. Some stupid pogue rule about protecting each other or some shit like that. He didn’t care. None of that mattered right now.
The line crackled before Sarah came back, breathless, clearly arguing with someone just out of reach.
“They live in Carova, almost near VA Dare Trail- th-their house is light blue-no, uh, blue-green… like a turqu- it doesn’t matter what color the house is, John B!-Rafe, Rafe, I don’t understand what’s going on. I don’t know what you’re going to do. These past few days have been crazy, but please, don’t do something stupid.”
“Thanks, Sarah.” he grabbed the keys to his truck and ran out of the house. “I’ll explain everything once I fix this!”
As he left his house, he felt like something, no matter how small, finally made sense. It made sense that his father hadn’t accepted his friendship with a pogue girl. It made sense that he didn’t remember her. That he didn’t remember that painful part of his life. It made sense that she hadn’t looked for him.
His hands were steady, though white, gripping the steering wheel.
What would he say? What excuse would he give, showing up at a stranger’s house like that? Especially him, who had so openly despised the other side of the island without the slightest remorse. He knew he’d have to show up in some kind of neutral zone, lower his guard, but he wasn’t sure how he’d be received. Or how he himself would react in that moment. Or if she’d even want to see him.
His mind was already imagining possible scenarios of what might happen, one after another, and rejection took up the most space. What would he do if -when- that happened? How would he handle this overwhelming need to talk, to ask, to explain himself, to simply be there, if he wasn’t wanted?
He was crossing the bridge. The boundary between two very different worlds coexisting on the island. He went from a clear, bright sky to a heavy gray cloud that seemed to settle right above his head. It felt like an all-too-accurate description of the state of his mind.
As he drove deeper into the narrow streets, he felt like his heart was about to leap out of his mouth. He was very nervous. But more than anything, he was scared. He didn’t know what it would mean to come face to face with someone who had lived through the worst moment of his life. Moments he still didn’t remember.
Would his memories suddenly surface when he saw her? When he saw the photos? Would he even be able to recover them?
The drive along VA Dare Trail felt endless. He looked from side to side, alert, waiting to recognize the street his sister had mentioned. Thunder rumbled in the sky and the sound slammed into his chest; Rafe jolted slightly in his seat, startled.
He slammed one fist against the steering wheel and cursed out loud for being so on edge, for feeling so close to losing control. Almost ironically, he thought of the breathing exercises Rose -his father’s partner- had once suggested he do in the middle of a business dinner. A dinner that, curiously enough, would end up defining the future of his life.
He inhaled. Felt the air fill his lungs. Exhaled.
After a few moments, he gave up and went back to tapping the steering wheel with his fingertips, setting a nervous rhythm. He turned on the radio, hoping to clear his mind, though he didn’t manage to relax completely. He stayed alert. Tense.
Watching for any street sign that started with the letter “C.”
Meadow Way.
Wharf Street.
Lotus Lane.
Carova Street.
Carova.
That was his turn.
He pressed the clutch quickly and turned. The street was surrounded by dense trees; even during the day, with some sunlight filtering through the leaves, the place felt dark. Enclosed. He slowed down almost automatically, and then there was no doubt. There it was.
He saw the house sooner than he would have liked. Thanks -or not- to John B and his insistence on describing the colors, he recognized it instantly. The undefined shade of the facade stood out against the darkness. Finally. Finally, he would have answers. Or at least, that was what he kept telling himself to gather the courage.
He parked the car in front of the main door. He stayed there, staring at the front of the house and the small path leading up to it. Crossing it would mean more than just a few simple steps. The engine was still running. A small part of his mind considered the possibility of leaving. Of walking away from all that drama and continuing with his miserable life just as it was.
Pretend that none of this mattered. But deep down -way down- he knew it wouldn’t work. That it would haunt him for the rest of his life if he didn’t do something now.
The engine stopped roaring. The silence was almost deafening. He patted his thighs with both hands and exhaled slowly. His palms were sweaty; he couldn’t help it. He felt like a little kid again. And it was ironic, because he had never felt like that again. He wasn’t even sure he remembered what that was supposed to feel like.
When he stepped out of the car, something clicked in his mind. He realized he was alive. And that he was there. That he was about to return, if only for an instant, to a past he had been forced to forget.
Every step echoed in his head, loud. Like the tick-tock of a clock marking a countdown. The exact seconds before crashing, inevitably, into a wall.
He knocked on the wood three times, and Rafe could almost hear, inside his head, the trumpets of the apocalypse.
There was movement on the other side of the door, and that unsettled him even more. It meant it was real. That it wasn’t something pulled from his imagination.
The doorknob turned and Rafe stumbled back five steps at once. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The woman who opened the door froze when she saw him, her mouth slightly open, words caught in her throat.
Rafe felt a physical knot in his stomach, so intense that for a second he thought he might throw up.
She had recognized him.
How could she not? On that side of the island, everyone knew Ward Cameron’s son, heir, privileged, first-class elitist.
The woman took a few steps outside, wiping her hands on the dirty cloth hanging from her side, then carefully closed the door behind her, as if she wanted to keep the inside of the house safe.
“Cameron boy, what brings you to this side of the island?”
What she really wanted to ask was what brought him to her house, but she already had a suspicion she didn’t like.
“G-good afternoon, Mrs. Arden,”
Rafe clasped his hands in front of his body, almost at his lap.
And then she stopped seeing Ward’s son.
She was able to see her daughter’s friend again.
The little blond boy who had entered her house only once and had drunk hot chocolate sitting on her couch. The boy she was tired of hearing about every time she saw her daughter. A boy who had been very unlucky with the family he was born into.
“I’m looking f-for your,” he took a deep breath and met her eyes, “daughter.”
The woman blinked, and the gears in her mind began to turn, trying to figure out what Rafe could possibly want from her daughter after so many years. For a second, worry tightened in her chest. She thought of shady business, of debts that weren’t hers, of trouble with kooks that always ended badly.
“Is everything okay?” she stepped a few paces closer.
Rafe immediately stepped back.
“Y-yes, yes!” he raised his hands in a defensive, almost pleading gesture. “I just- I just want to talk to her.” he stayed with his mouth slightly open, as if he were about to add something else, but the words didn’t come. She watched him in silence, attentive, searching his face for any sign that might confirm or deny her fears. “Nothing happened. Really.”
The woman held his gaze. She didn’t fully trust Rafe. She didn’t know why, after so much time, this situation was happening. Rafe had a reputation to be wary of, one he had built from a young age. Even so, she wasn’t afraid of a teenage–young adult. At most, she felt respect. Respect for the weight of the Cameron name and for the way that family knew how to pull the island’s strings.
Her eyes assessed him carefully, as if the longer she looked at him, the more she could see beyond what he was saying. Or what he was keeping quiet.
“And what is this-” she lifted and dropped her shoulders, “-that you need to talk to her about?”
Rafe swallowed.
“I j-just-” he ran his tongue over his lips, nervous. “I just need to see her. Tell her something. Nothing bad, I swear.”
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if that might convince her.
The woman narrowed her eyes slightly. She scoffed under her breath, more tired than angry, trapped in a situation she hadn’t asked for. Her husband wasn’t going to believe this.
“A lot of time has passed, Rafe. And-” she sighed, fidgeting with the cloth in her hands, “-it was shocking for me. I don’t even want to imagine what it was like for her.”
She searched the boy’s eyes. She wanted him to understand. She wanted to feel at ease, to make sure he wasn’t going to do something stupid that none of them could undo afterward.
“I just-” she paused briefly, “-just want you to know that I don’t care if you’re a Cameron, a Kennedy, or the fucking Queen of England. If anything happens, after everything that’s already happened, you’re a dead man.”
She smiled tensely, without humor. It was a warning. A warning born out of fear and love.
The silence that followed was brief, but dense. Rafe didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He didn’t insist. He wanted to nod. He wanted to tell her he understood. He wanted to tell her everything that had happened. That he wouldn’t do anything other than want to hug her daughter. That he needed to see her to confirm she was real. That he wasn’t losing his mind.
But he didn’t say anything.
“She’s not-” she finally said, sighing, “she’s not home. Not since this morning.”
Rafe felt something loosen in his chest, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. It wasn’t complete relief, but it was enough.
“Do you- do you know where I might find her?”
The woman hesitated. She turned her face over her shoulder, toward the inside of the house, as if searching for an excuse to escape the conversation. Then she looked back at him, a tired determination in her eyes.
“She’s probably at the beach,” she answered, thinking for a few more moments. “She usually goes around Duck’s Cottage, you know? The café.”
Rafe nodded immediately, almost automatically, as if he feared the information might vanish if he didn’t grab onto it fast enough. He started walking backward, without fully turning his back, until he gently bumped into the car. A small, nervous, involuntary smile spread across his face.
“Thank you, Mrs. Arden. Thank you.”
“You’ve been warned, Cameron!” she raised her voice just a little as she watched the boy get into the vehicle. “Damn it.”
The door closed, the engine roared back to life, and she stayed there for a few more seconds, the cloth clenched in her hands, wondering if she had just dug at an old wound or if, at last, all of this would finally come to an end.
The air inside the car had grown heavy. Rafe didn’t know if it was his imagination, but it felt harder and harder to breathe. He rolled all four windows down just a few inches, searching for fresh air; instead, his nose ran straight into the salty smell of the sea, and that made it worse. His stomach clenched instantly.
He was getting close.
He was driving along the same road he’d taken before, VA Dare Trail, but in the opposite lane. He knew there were only a few streets left. He felt the heat gather at the back of his neck, a shiver run down his spine, and he had to swallow several times because his mouth had gone dry.
He heard it before he could see it.
The sea.
His heart gave a sharp, almost painful jolt. On the corner, the old building appeared, worn down by time but still cared for, with a duck logo hanging beside the doors. He braked harder than necessary and rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a few seconds. He needed to pull himself together. He took a deep breath. Once. Twice.
He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure that finding her would solve any puzzle in his mind, or that the answers he was looking for were still there. But he had to try. Even if it meant setting aside his prejudices. And that was really fucking hard.
He opened the door and got out.
He felt the grains of sand crunch under his shoes and crossed the street toward the beach access. The waves were rising; when they crashed against the shore, they boomed loudly, a sound that vibrated in his chest. The clouds, which had been gray before, had now turned almost black. It was going to rain.
Even so, the sun seemed to float over the horizon, and the sky opened into a strange mix of colors he rarely saw on his side of the island. Too beautiful for the knot he felt in his stomach.
He followed the rocky path that led him toward the shore and looked to both sides. He was looking for something. Anything that would spark his curiosity, that would push him forward without thinking too much. To one side, large rocks formed a kind of wall; at their base, a few dry logs served as makeshift benches.
He stopped. He decided to sit down.
He needed to recap what was happening, to organize the thoughts piling up in his mind. The wind cooled his skin, but it wasn’t enough to calm him.
She was on the other side of the rocks.
The past few days had been an emotional roller coaster. She had decided to talk to her parents about the misfortune that had happened to them and about how she planned to look for a steady job. No more small jobs, the kind where she helped Kie at the restaurant or a neighbor tidy up their house. She wanted money. She needed money. She wanted to truly help her family.
She even thought about moving to New York to live with her grandparents and work for them. At the very least, she’d earn more. She’d be far away, yes, and maybe she’d only come back for the holidays. The idea tightened her chest, but she still considered it. She had to do something. She couldn’t stay with her arms crossed, waiting for things to get better on their own.
Her parents didn’t take it well.
They wanted to see her finish high school, an achievement they had never been able to reach themselves. They dreamed of giving her a better life, of making sure she lacked nothing, that her biggest worries would be deciding what to wear or where to go out that night. Instead, their daughter stayed late washing dishes at The Wreck, her hands wrinkled from the water and exhaustion weighing on her back. Studying late, and sleeping only a few hours, if she managed to fall asleep at all.
She had decided to stop writing.
It took long conversations with her friend Aaliyah to fully let go of Whispers. Or at least everything that came with it. She felt drained, empty. She was tired of abandonment being the only feeling capable of turning into sad poems about her childhood friend. She didn’t want her art to revolve around him. She didn’t want to think that she was good for nothing except writing about his absence.
He wasn’t her muse. He had only been the first one.
And it was time to let him go.
It was also time to head back home. The first raindrops fell on her head, so she stood up, grabbed her torn, dirty duffel bag, and pulled up the hood of her jacket. She walked toward the path that led her to Duck’s, where she’d left her bike. She wanted to get back before the weather really got worse.
Rafe saw her first.
She passed by him quickly, almost running, escaping the rain falling from the sky. He didn’t care about getting wet.
His voice got stuck in his throat.
He wasn’t sure it was her. It could’ve been anyone. But something tightened in his chest.
He had nothing to lose by trying.
“Hey, uh-”
She turned around with a distracted smile, almost automatic. For a second, she seemed kind. Then she recognized him. Any trace of friendliness vanished immediately, and Rafe could see her body tense. Her grip on the bag tightened and she took a couple of steps back. Defensive.
“Cameron.”
What the hell?
The first thing that crossed her mind was that she was dreaming.
Or that her tired, treacherous mind was playing a cruel trick on her.
Rafe Cameron didn’t belong on that side of the island. He didn’t belong in her refuge. He was a stain, completely out of place.
Her stomach clenched suddenly, as if her body had reacted before her mind. She felt heat in her chest and, at the same time, cold in her hands. Her heart started pounding fast, uneven.
Too many years had passed, and yet she could recognize even his voice from a distance.
But having him right in front of her felt unreal.
His eyes were darker than in the photos she kept on her desk. His cheeks no longer had freckles, they weren’t round anymore, nor did they look soft. His face no longer naturally carried joy; now there was something hard in his features, something intimidating. His brow was always furrowed, his jaw tense, as if he were always ready to fight.
She knew the boy she had once known no longer existed.
And that hurt more than anything else.
She had experienced firsthand the sharp tongue Rafe could have when he wanted to. He hated her. And not in a personal way, she knew that whatever had happened in the past held no real importance for him. Rafe simply hated the kind of person she was. Her life. Her home. Her friendships. He hated workers.
That’s why she didn’t understand what he was doing there, standing in front of her, risking being seen with a pogue. With that pogue, who had once been his friend.
For a moment, an unpleasant thought crossed her mind: maybe he had come out of fear. Fear that she might say something.
But to who?
It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous that after so many years something could come to light.
“I-”
“What are you doing here?”
She looked around her surroundings, paranoid. She didn’t want to be seen with him either. Dear God, out of her pogue friends only Kiara knew what had happened in her childhood. A simple distraction and the girl was already snooping through the albums she had on the shelf. And she’d simply had to tell her, but made her swear by the seven seas that she wouldn’t say a word to anyone.
“I just wanted to talk.”
It was her. It was her and she was standing in front of him. And her eyes were looking at him. And he could feel her voice so close it filled his chest. It was her and she had been his friend.
“Talk?” her tone showed disbelief. She shook her head and continued on her way. “Go and leave me alone, Cameron. Whatever problem you have, sort it out among yourselves.”
She had come to the conclusion that something else had happened. Maybe there had been a fight. JJ was always getting into trouble with the kooks, and it wouldn’t surprise her if once again he’d done something that made them snap. She knew Rafe and she knew men; she knew they were capable of anything just to keep their egos from getting bruised.
“Among yourselves?”
She had already moved a few steps ahead, ending the conversation before it had really begun.
He couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t. God, he couldn’t.
The movement was instinctive. Before thinking it through, Rafe grabbed her arm. The gesture was clumsy, desperate. One of the bag’s straps slipped off her shoulder and the weight fell to one side.
She turned around immediately, furious.
“Don’t touch me or I swear I’ll scream-”
“I just wanted to see you.”
“You’ve seen me. Happy?”
Yes. Yes, he was very happy.
Just as he was about to nod, she pulled herself free from his grip with a sharp tug and kept walking. The contact had lasted barely a second, but it was enough. His heart was exploding in his chest. She’d been scared. Only God knew what Rafe wanted from her, and she’d rather die with the question than stay to hear him out.
She’d taken barely two more steps when his voice reached her.
“I know you’re Polaroid.”
Her knees nearly buckled completely. She begged heaven and earth that she had heard wrong, because if she hadn’t, she didn’t know what she was going to do. The words hung in the air. She didn’t turn around right away. For one eternal second she thought she’d misheard. That her mind was playing tricks on her.
That name wasn’t supposed to exist outside her small world.
She would lie.
Slowly, she turned around with an expression of confusion.
“What?”
Her grip on the bag tightened, so much that her knuckles went pale.
Rafe jogged toward her, awkwardly.
“I know it’s you,” he said once he was at her side, breathing hard. “I swear I won’t say-”
She turned just slightly, enough to fix him with a cold stare.
“I am not that girl,” she cut him off before he could finish, her voice low. He couldn’t know that. He shouldn’t. She adjusted the bag on her shoulder and took a step to go around him. “Now leave me alone.”
Rafe moved with her, not to stop her, but to keep pace, turning his body just enough not to lose sight of her. His eyes held onto her, intense, as if he were afraid she might disappear if he blinked.
“Then who have I been talking to these past few days, huh?”
“There are a lot of scammers these days, Cameron,” she replied, shrugging slightly. “Be careful.”
“Don’t fuck with me.” he shook his head, running a hand over his face. His body looked exhausted, as if he’d just run a marathon. “I just want to talk, I swear. I-I won’t tell anyone, I don’t even want to talk about that, I just want-”
“I don’t understand you, Rafe. I don’t know what you want from me,” she interrupted, crossing her arms over her body in a defensive, incredulous gesture.
“I want to talk.”
“We are talking.”
“No, I-” he fell silent for a second, searching for the right words, for something to say that would make her believe him. “I want to understand.”
She opened her eyes just a bit wider and raised her eyebrows. Confusion showed clearly on her face. Her mouth moved as if she were going to say something, but nothing came out. Just a sigh, heavy with exhaustion.
“Understand what?”
“Us.”
She let out a short, dry laugh, without humor. She covered her face with both hands, shaking her head.
“What us?”
“We were friends… what happened?”
“Mm, let me think-” she murmured, as if she were actually searching for the answer. “Funny. I asked myself that same thing for years.”
Rafe frowned, taking half a step closer without realizing it.
“Why?”
“Why?” she looked at him then, straight on, her eyes hard. “You should know.”
“I just-” Rafe shook his head. Was there something else he didn’t remember? Maybe, in the end, he was the one who pushed her away. “I don’t remember.”
“And what am I supposed to do about that? Help you remember your life?”
Rafe opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it again, took a deep breath, like the air wasn’t enough. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down for a second, lost.
“No-” he said softly. “That’s not what I want-”
His voice trembled and he scoffed. His lips were red and chapped from biting them so much. He didn’t want to look at her, couldn’t look at her. He knew his eyes were red, they burned, and he could feel that knot in his stomach that came right before crying. He couldn’t cry.
“I just don’t understand,” he admitted, almost in a whisper. “I feel like- like something’s missing, and you’re the only one I think might understand.”
He pressed his fingers to his temple, desperate.
“I-I talked to my dad, and I-I looked for photos I couldn’t find, but Sarah- Sarah mentioned you, and I went to the treehouse, and then I saw the picture on the blog and it was me, but-but I don’t get it! Because you’re here-” he gestured at her, head to toe, completely bewildered “-and I know you. But you’re missing from my mind. I don’t see you, but I feel you. I feel like you were there, and I remember how it felt. But I can’t see you. And I don’t know why.”
His shoulders slumped, defeated.
“And it hurts.” his voice broke.
She had the urge to touch his arm, but she couldn’t. He was still like looking at a stranger wearing the shape of the boy she once adored.
The rain came down harder than before. Neither of them moved. It wasn’t worth it anymore, they were already soaked, their clothes clinging to their bodies. The world around them seemed to shrink down to that stretch of beach.
She thought she should run. Thought about her bike, her house, her friends. But her body didn’t respond. She stayed there, watching him, trying to memorize Rafe’s face in case this was the last time she’d ever get to see him this close.
He had a distant look in his eyes. Water ran down his hair, over his eyelashes, and he couldn’t tell whether it was the rain or his own tears.
“You never came back home,” he finally said, his voice broken. “Not after-”
“Nobody wanted me there, Rafe.”
He shook his head immediately, his hair sticking to his forehead even more. He took a step toward her, stumbling on the heavy sand.
“I did. I wanted you there.”
She shook her head, incredulous. Her heart ached a little.
“Don’t lie. You didn’t-”
“Didn’t what?” his voice rose, desperate. “Do you think I didn’t want my only friend with me when my mother died?” his hands ached to touch her, to feel her skin and know she was still there, listening to him. “When my father was filling my head with the idea that now it was my turn to be the man of the house? To be a kid acting like an adult to take care of my sisters?” he swallowed. His chest hurt. “Of course I wanted you there.”
She felt something sink in her stomach. She had spent years believing one version of that story. A version she had managed to overcome and move on from. But now, something didn’t add up.
“But your father-”
“What?” Rafe frowned. “My father what?”
The rain streamed down their faces, mixing with their ragged breathing. She looked at the ground, her head spinning, and felt sick. It was too much. Too much after so long with nothing.
“Your father told me you didn’t want to see me,” she confessed, lowering her voice. “I-I went to your house. A few days later.” she looked at him, searching for answers. Searching for something that would make sense of it all. “And I-I brought you flowers,” because I knew how much you liked flowers, “and your father, he told me I couldn’t come back. That I shouldn’t bother you.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Rafe felt something click into place, tied to the conversation he’d had with his father that day. His father would always find a way to be Ward Cameron. To screw him over, if he had to.
“I never said that,” he murmured so softly she could barely hear him over the sound of the sea mixed with the rain.
“And I believed him! Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?” she lifted her face, and Rafe was close. Breathing the same air as her. “He was your father, and he knew you, and I understood it! I understood him asking that of me. That’s why I left you alone. You had lost your mother, and I understood. I didn’t want you to feel more bothered than you already must have felt.”
Rafe shook his head; fragments of memories surfaced in his mind, disjointed. He squeezed his eyes shut. It had all been a misunderstanding. A fucking misunderstanding that had cost him his own sanity. A trap disguised as a misunderstanding. Because the one responsible had a clear conscience, because his plan had worked perfectly, and he hadn’t cared that the price was his own son’s stability.
“I just wanted my friend. And I feel like you were the only real thing I ever had in my life. And still, you didn’t exist for me for a long time. I lost you, and I don’t want to do that again. You mattered to me- you matter.”
He ran a hand through his wet hair, restless, as if he didn’t know what to do with his own body. He took another step closer without realizing it. He was so close. Her eyes were clear now. He could store her face in his memory and swore he wouldn’t forget it this time. That he wouldn’t forget her eyes, that he would remember how it felt and what it was like to have her beside him.
She stayed still.
No. Not now. She had already decided. She had already buried it. She had spent six hours on the phone with Aaliyah, for God’s sake; she had to turn the page.
The rain weighed down on her hood and she pulled it off roughly. She felt hot. A knot tightened in her chest. She had spent too long convincing herself she didn’t need him, that that chapter was closed. That she had finally let him go. And now Rafe was there, looking at her as if the stars hung from her hands.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” she finally said. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Rafe. It’s just that- saying it now doesn’t erase what happened. It doesn’t erase what I felt. It doesn’t erase what you went through.”
He nodded immediately. His shoulders sank a little; he had expected it. He knew those words would come.
“I-I know. I don’t want to erase it.”
His hands hung at his sides, tense. His fingers opened and closed, nervous. He didn’t know what to do with them.
“I just- needed you to know. I needed to know that I didn’t imagine you, that you were real.”
Don’t look at me like that, she thought. She couldn’t break.
“I got used to being nobody in your life,” she said. “To living as if I were nothing.” she looked straight at him, forcing herself not to let her guard down. “I can’t change that overnight.”
“I don’t want you to,” he replied quickly, shaking his head. “I really don’t.”
He tilted his face slightly, almost bumping noses, their breaths mixing.
“I just… wanted you to know that if you had never disappeared from my mind, everything would be different.”
She wanted to believe him. She really did- if only to heal that part of herself that had carried resentment for feeling invisible and humiliated for so long.
“What would be different?”
“Us.”
“Us?” incredulity echoed in her voice. “Do you think we would have stayed friends? That you would’ve given up the privileges of your last name for me?” she shook her head and leaned back slightly to look at him, searching for hope in Rafe’s eyes. “Sooner or later it would’ve happened. Nothing would’ve been different.”
“Yes, it would have. If-if I had- I would have changed.”
“No, Rafe. You wouldn’t have changed, and that’s okay,” she said stiffly. “Because it already happened. And nothing can be changed now.”
“I wish I could change it.” Rafe sniffed, his gaze fixed on the seawater soaking his feet. “I wish I could fully remember Mom. Remember you. I wish none of this had happened. I wish I were-”
He ran out of air.
Rafe didn’t remember his mother.
The thought hit her like a blunt blow.
The rain began to fall harder, pounding the sand, the sea, his shoulders. He didn’t move. He dragged a hand down his face, frustrated, as if he could erase himself with the gesture.
“I was messed up… I am messed up,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I’m an idiot and I probably always will be. I’m sorry I hurt you. I-I never meant to cause you any sorrow.”
“It’s okay, I-”
She sighed and gathered enough courage to touch him.
She placed her hand on his shoulder and left it there, unmoving. Rafe felt his knees weaken at that small, devastating gesture.
“It’s such a shame our friendship had to end,” she murmured. “I would’ve liked to grow up by your side.”
Rafe’s hair was long now; dark strands clung to his soaked neck. It was a temptation she couldn’t indulge in anymore. It was too late.
“You were a good boy, Rafe,” she continued softly. “You were my friend. My best one. But now.”
Her hand trembled before she pulled it away quickly, as if she’d burned herself. As if the reminder that this Rafe was no longer hers had hurt her.
“You’re a stranger. I don’t know you anymore… and you don’t know me.” she swallowed, avoiding his sad eyes. “And I’m not sure that-”
She stopped to breathe, to steady herself.
“I’m not sure I want to get to know you again. To get to know this Rafe. And I’d like-”
She cleared her throat and stepped away from him, from that closeness, from his expectant eyes.
“I’d like to keep the old version of you.”
Rafe nodded. He nodded even though he had never felt more alone.
“I understand.”
Now there was only the rain.
Rafe felt a rush of emotions running through his body, all at once, without order or name. He wanted to tell her a thousand things and, at the same time, say nothing. Just look at her. Save her image. Think.
He wished things had been different. He would have loved to go back, bend time just a little, and think that if only he had run away to see her back then, they wouldn’t be standing there now, soaked, like two strangers. Maybe he wouldn’t hate himself so much. Maybe he would be a different man.
She, on the other hand, only thought about getting home. About seeing her mother. About talking. About confirming she wasn’t crazy for feeling what she felt. She didn’t quite know how to process that encounter, but she did know she didn’t want to sink back into that strange sadness and parasocial feeling. She didn’t want to believe that Rafe. The one she had struggled so much to accept had changed for the worse.
“Thank you-”
“I should-”
They spoke at the same time.
Rafe smiled, and she felt those six hours of conversation with Aaliyah fade from her mind as if they had never existed. He was beautiful. Beautiful and evil.
He stepped forward. In his eyes there was a gesture, almost a silent question. He didn’t want to seem greedy, didn’t want to ask for too much, but he needed her close. He feared waking up at any moment and discovering it had all been a cruel dream, just another one.
She barely had time to stretch out her arm when Rafe was already upon her.
His arms wrapped tightly around her back, his hands trying to cover as much space as possible, as if afraid she might slip through his fingers. She was there. She was there, and she was real. His fingers closed firmly, needing her.
Rafe buried his face in the hollow of her neck, and she felt his warm breath against her rain-soaked skin. She felt the brush of his eyelashes beneath her ear and how his body trembled against hers. He breathed in once, twice, and the air left him broken. He clung to her as if he hadn’t breathed in his entire life, as if she were the first breath of air filling his lungs.
She held herself together as best she could.
Her hands clenched into fists against the soaked fabric of his shirt. She felt the warmth of his body, his scent, the weight of a memory that intoxicated her, and she didn’t allow herself to think. She didn’t want to think. She let herself stay there, enjoy it for a moment. Just one.
There would be plenty of time to regret it later.
She forced herself to pull away from Rafe after two minutes. Her clothes were already starting to bother her, and the rain showed no sign of stopping. It was a slow separation. They both needed to make sure the other was still there even when they were no longer touching.
Rafe loosened the embrace when he felt the pressure she held against his neck fade, though his arm lingered around her waist for a second longer. His fingers slid over the wet fabric. When he lifted his face, his eyes were red, glassy, and he avoided looking at her right away, as if it were too much. He swallowed. His breathing still hadn’t found a steady rhythm.
She took a step back, just enough to catch her breath. Her chest felt tight, her throat closed. She didn’t cry. She wasn’t going to. But her hands still trembled slightly, betraying her. She adjusted the bag on her shoulder and lowered her gaze for a second before lifting it again.
The sound of the rain filled the space between them. The sea was still there, insistent.
“I-” she started, then stopped. She frowned, searching for the right words. “I have things. Photos.” she looked up at him, gauging his reaction. “Old ones. Some are yours. Others-” she hesitated. “I also have videos. With your mom. You can come get them at my house.”
Rafe lifted his head sharply. For a moment, he seemed not to understand, as if his mind needed an extra second to process it. His lips parted, and he nodded almost immediately, with an urgency he didn’t try to hide.
“Yes,” he said, his voice low, broken. “Yes, please.”
She nodded too, more slowly. She wasn’t promising anything beyond that. She wasn’t promising to stay, to start over, or to forgive. Just that.
“Whenever you want,” she added. “But not today.”
Rafe accepted the condition without argument. He knew it was already a lot.
She took a couple of steps back, the rain tracing small paths down her face. She looked at him one last time, as if wanting to make sure that moment stayed exactly where it belonged: in the present.
“Take care, Rafe.”
His time was up.
“You too.”
They stood there, looking at each other for one more moment, as if neither wanted to be the first to leave. Then she turned on her heels and began to walk away.
jo's notes: this is the end lovies. writing this fic was so therapeutic that I even closed chapters of my life that were a huge inspiration for whispers of the sea. I want to thank you all for the support you’ve shown me over this past year and a bit. truly, there are so many kind people on tumblr, and I’m incredibly grateful that you chose to read my silly little fic. much love to all of you. I’m taking a break (not a long one), but I’ll be back with more.
and yes, there will be extra chapters of whispers of the sea, aka echoes of us.
all my love. I love you.
Jo.
│whispers of the sea / echoes of us has a taglist! if you want to be added, let me know and keep interacting with the posts to stay on it!
꩜ the other side (they meet!)
꩜ first date
꩜ excuses to see each other
꩜ jealousy
꩜ check, please
꩜ date night! (18+)
꩜ fit me in, if you can
꩜ lean on me
꩜ blast from the past
│summary・"Whispers of the Sea" breathes life into forgotten memories through wistful poems and hidden truths. Drawn to it's words, Rafe finds himself chasing echoes of a past he can’t fully recall. The anonymous blogger is the childhood friend forgotten in time. Rafe searches for the pieces of a forgotten puzzle, trying to make sense of the storm brewing in his mind, while his heart fills with the poems of the girl he once adored.
│pairing・Ex-childhoodfriend!Rafe Cameron x Poet/Blogger!Female oc/reader
│not finished‼・graphics highly inspired by @zyafics
│ CHAPTERS. each page a heartbeat, each word a breath.
─chapter 1 ﹕"echoes of his ghost"
─chapter 2 ﹕"beginning of the chase"
─chapter 3 ﹕"do I ever cross your mind?"
─chapter 4 ﹕"If anyone could've saved me It would've been you"
─chapter 5 ﹕"you are the life I needed all along"
─chapter 6 ﹕"the mind is a puzzle"
─chapter 7 ﹕"I still see you"
─chapter 8 ﹕"somehow you got under my skin"
─chapter 9 ﹕"friends"
─chapter 10 ﹕"anyway, don't be a stranger"
─chapter 11 ﹕"at least i'm trying"
─chapter 12 ﹕"polaroid"
─chapter 13 ﹕"hopeless romantic"
─chapter 14 ﹕"come back, to me"
─chapter 15 ﹕"if you go then I'll never grow"
─chapter 16 ﹕"something more"
─chapter 17 ﹕"hurricane"
─chapter 18 ﹕"i should try not to miss anymore"
─chapter 19
─chapter 20
│ EXTRAS. fragments that still have meaning.
──── Rafe's "Whispers of the Sea" moodboard.
──── Juliet's "Whispers of the Sea" moodboard.
──── "Whispers of the Sea" playlist.
──── Memories.
│ TAGLIST. I don’t have an updates account, but you can follow me here and turn on notifications to know when I post a new part. You can also be added to the tag list, but you’ll need to interact with the post to stay on it!
