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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."
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."