James "Sawyer" Ford

The toilet paper and magazines Sawyer had received last month were finally all stuffed away where they couldn't be harmed by sudden downpours of rain. It had all taken him longer than initially expected, though Sawyer knew that was more his own fault than anyone else's, not having the attention span to cope with the simple action of stuffing rolls of paper around his hut, in places strategic enough not to blow up a cloud of dust and lint whenever he felt frustrated enough to do something stupid. Like bury the toe of his boot in a pallet of tissue.

But with the deed finally done after days of dawdling and focusing instead on classes and patrol, Sawyer finally felt free enough to escape the clutches of his hut at last, a pistol— noticeably, not the one he'd tossed around shortly after Kate's departure— shoved under his belt. He sauntered around the island, taking his damn time, winding around on a more complex patrol than he normally bothered with. When he so happened to wander by Jamie's place, he wondered if it was his subconscious that brought him there, or if clouded thoughts and dumb luck had really just pulled him so far from his own place.

Either way, he'd stopped fighting happenstance a long time ago. Instead of knocking, he lingered about with a cheery whistled tune, curious to see if it was enough to tug the guy out.

The sun had drawn lines of fire across the floor, peeking through cracks widened and some jagged edges splintered by uncertain force— now, they finally faded, and the distant cries of children slipped away for the evening to make way for the uncertain spray of noise in the distance.

There wasn't a trace of her in the hut. He wouldn't have been able to stay, had there been. No, all of her belongings remained in a place he couldn't remember how to find, even though he'd been there less than a day prior. He'd crossed by her hut with the aim of dropping off a bundle of fruit, like it was nothing. Mangoes, so she wouldn't find herself forced to climb up trees, drop the weight on the unsuspecting passerby. Every quip was prepared, every step in place for the uncertain routine they'd fallen into, if only as a stopgap for them to finally breathe and decide, with more clarity, where they wanted to progress. Some part of him knew, as soon as that knock sounded hollow, that she'd ran.

And the only question which remained, burying itself into his chest, was this: had she chosen to?

No one knew how other people came to leave the island. For all that arriving wasn't a choice, no one knew if the same held true for departures. There was no wavelength to tap into, no seance to hold, no way to break through the barrier and run a thumb along a familiar cheek. None of it. Denial could only last so long, eyes roving as he peeked into her usual haunts, gave up patrol to sit on her step, but as the sun had fallen that first night, that was all the confirmation he needed.

Each crack in the wall felt satisfying under his hand, knuckles ripped raw until they bled into the grain. And in the early evening, the wine that spilled dark didn't look much different.

The clip was thrown clear across the room hours ago, but the second Sawyer heard someone pushing in through the door, he raised his pistol to point at the unwanted visitor.

"Turn around," he muttered hoarsely from his corner, smelling heavily of liquor and seated on the ground. "And get the fuck out."