He didn’t respond. Just leaned back slightly, shoulder brushing mine. The touch was so light I almost imagined it. But it was contact. Real. Unmistakable.
I let the quiet wrap around us again before breaking it.
“When my sister died,” I said, voice rougher than I meant it to be, “I had this one night. Maybe a week after. I woke upconvinced she was alive. I could feel her. The way she slammed cupboards. Her laugh. How she hummed while she cooked.”
He didn’t speak, but I felt him freeze beside me. Like he was listening intently but didn't want to show it.
“I wandered the house while my parents slept. I knew it was insane, but I couldn’t stop. I was terrified if I stood still—stayed in my room—I’d forget what her voice sounded like.”
“What happened?” he asked eventually, voice hoarse.
“I fell asleep in the hallway. Woke up with her scarf in my hands. Don’t even remember picking it up.”
I didn’t look at him, but I heard the catch in his breath.
“I dreamed about her,” he breathed like it was a confession. “Right after. It felt so real. Like I was back in that room. Like if I reached out, I could stop it. But I always wake up right as the monitor flatlines.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “That’s the worst part. Reliving it. Knowing they’re not coming back and still hoping, anyway.”
His next breath was sharp. Unsteady. I felt it down to my bones.
“I don’t do people,” he muttered after a long pause. “I’m not built for it. They always want something. Or they lie. Or leave. It’s easier to be alone.”
“I get that.”
His brow lifted, skeptically. “Then why are you here?”
I stared out toward the cliffs; the ocean crashing against the rocks far below.
“Because you looked like you were disappearing.”
The words hung between us like a verdict.
He blinked. Twice. Like he didn’t know how to process that. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Good,” I said. “You shouldn’t lower your standards.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Barely there. But real.
The wind picked up, rustling dead leaves across the deck. The night held still, like it was waiting.
Elliot leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head hung between his shoulders. I passed him the bottle. He took it without a word and drank.
“Don’t expect anything from me,” he muttered after a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I won’t.” I inclined my head toward him. “But I’ll keep showing up.”
He passed the bottle back. Our fingers brushed—warm and soft and hesitant. It wasn’t an accident.
“Don’t tell him,” Elliot said quietly.
I turned toward him. “Tell who?”
“My dad. About this.” He gestured vaguely between us, then toward the house. “About me being out here. About… any of it.” His voice wasn’t defensive. It was careful. Like he was handing me something breakable.
I nodded. “Okay.”
He released a breath I hadn’t realized he was holding. Just once. Like that mattered.
