From far away, he is a scar. He is hole in the seam of the sky, a piece of the darkness gathered beneath, the first blot of night. A shard of shadow borne by the sea.
On closer inspection, he is a man, an old one, standing on a twilit beach.

He is barefoot, and November has made the sand cool. He feels it sift between his toes and shade the crescents of his nails. Blue shadows wash over the rivers of his veins and the twisted valleys his seventy-nine years have left on his skin. He looks straight ahead.

The sea seethes and murmurs under his gaze. White foam spreads itself thin across the sand, stopping an inch before his toes. He shivers, and steps forward.
The water meets him at last. He lets it sink its freezing blades into his ankles. Goosebumps prickle up along his calves, beneath his rolled-up cargo pants. The cold subsides to a dull, thin burning.

Jimmy, says the sea, as he knew it would.
He exhales, swallows, takes another step. “No one has called me ‘Jimmy’ in a long time.”

Your mother. Always her.
“My mother made many mistakes.”

More wet rustling, rising and falling with the old man’s shoulders. The sea is up to his knees now, the water seeping into the edge of his pants, so that they stick to his legs, sending a fresh shock of cold through him. He’s heavy with it. He dips his fingers into the bitter water.
“What do you want?”

A wave, bigger than the rest, pushes into him, splashing up to his hips. He stumbles, just a little. “Well?”
We want what was promised.

“Promises can be broken.” With withered hands he reaches into his pockets, weighted with silver coins and sea glass, love letters and little white pills. “I have so much, you know. So many things.”
We want what was promised.

“There has to be something.” His toes are numb now, but still he shivers.
We want what was promised.

“But not by me!” He shouts it, with every scrap of air in him. He wheezes, then, so very small. The water laps at his chest, at his fluttering seagull heart. “Not by me.”
A love for a love. A grief for a grief. One drowning man for another. A deal is a deal and a choice is a choice.

“And she chose saving him every time.” He feels a different sort of salt sting his face, something warm.
The waves do not soften. The sea is the sea. A mother is a woman. A woman is a woman and a woman can love too many things.

“He wasn’t the right thing.”
Your mother is dead. You outlived her, outlived them both. Now you are alive and alone. “Lucky me.” His feet grip the sifting sand with all his might, propelling him forward.

Yes, says the sea. She wept for you, in the end. Isn’t that enough?

He shakes his head, just once. His smile is a waning moon. “Not for me.”Goodnight, Jimmy, says the sea, and the old man’s wind-swollen lips offer no answer. The numbness has spread now, up to his shoulders, muffling the screaming of his bones, so that when he finally slips his head under the water, he feels nothing, nothing at all.

by A.J.

I grip the handle of my suitcase harder and step out into the crowded airport. Follow the signs, check in to my flight. Security is that way. I haven’t seen her in three months. I haven’t seen her since the accident. While I flew home with my parents, she stayed at the hospital in Boston. They wouldn’t let me return until now. I could feel their eyes on me as I limped down the hall to the bathroom every morning. Their rush to hand me my crutches every time I stood up. They wouldn’t let me book the flight until I could walk to the store and back with no help. Every day before I go to sleep I call her. But calling just isn’t the same. I need to see that she’s okay. I need to know that she’s okay.

The line for security reaches at least five feet past where the line is marked. It moves slowly, I walk a couple feet and then wait; walk, then wait. I wonder if she’s mad at me. It was my fault. What if she hates me? I manage to reach the front of the line. What if I get back and she’s packed all of my things into boxes, dozens of cardboard boxes, and tells me to leave? Take off shoes, belt, jacket. Put in bin. What if I get back to the apartment and it’s empty and she’s just gone? All technology larger than a phone out of bag. Put in bin. Laptop in separate bin. What if I have to rent a moving truck and drive all the way back to Florida? No liquids. Drink last gulp of water. Put in bin. Would I have to stay at crappy motels on the way? and get all of my food at rest stops? and…? Push bins and bags onto conveyor belt. Walk through.

When I get to my gate, it still has the flight number up for the flight before mine, and all of the seats in the nearby waiting area are taken. So instead I grab an overpriced cup of horribly mediocre coffee and wander. On our call last night I confirmed the arrival time with her. We don’t say much, just the basics. How are you doing? Fine. How’s the weather over there? Good. We’ve never been away from each other for this long since we first met three years ago. It was summer and the cafe was bustling with people, plastic cups in hand, all looking for a place to sit. I clutched my own cup and scanned the small place as well. I spotted a seat in the corner and tried to squeeze over to it, but someone sat down moments before I got there. Frustrated, I spun around to look for another seat and crashed right into someone; spilling my coffee all over their white dress. “Oh my god I’m so sorry” I managed to gasp out as I reached out to take some napkins from the nearest table and pass them over. Their skin was a stunning golden brown and their dark hair framed their face in tight curls.

“Shit, shit,” I could hear them mutter as they dabbed at the large stain now present on the front of their dress. They didn’t seem to have a jacket or anything to cover the stain.

“Here, let me go get some wet paper towels; They’ll probably work better than dry napkins.” I squeezed my way across to the bathrooms. The lines for both the men’s bathroom and the women’s bathroom were at least 5 people out the door, so I went over to the all-gender single, pushed the door open, and grabbed some paper towels. When I turned around, they were right there, standing in front of me again. I passed them the paper towels. It didn’t seem to be working.

“Here, if you want, you can change into my extra set of clothes and I’ll wash your dress for you” I reached into my bag and pulled out a t-shirt, pair of jeans, and belt. They took them gratefully and I stepped out of the bathroom and let them change. After they had changed into my spare set of clothes they opened the door again and handed me the dress. I have to admit they looked adorable in my oversized shirt. I washed their dress and dried it as best as I could with the hand dryer before handing it back to them. By the time they had changed back into their dress and given me back my extra clothes, I needed to head home. Outside the cafe, I unlocked my phone, and it opened to the contacts app. Halle. What a beautiful name.

By the time I get back to the gate, the flight before mine has left and the screen now shows flight 429 to Boston. I sit down and open my computer, but find myself simply staring at the login screen. I can’t help thinking of all of the questions I want to ask her. How is she really doing? Does she hate me? Is she staying in the apartment alone? Does she have a friend to help her? I wonder if she’s been going back to work. Did she tell her students what happened? Have they asked? I picture her at the front of her classroom. Presenting slides to her students. I picture her face as she sees me walk through the door, running towards me. I picture her in my arms, I can feel her hair against my face. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

I spent days in the hospital with her, even after I had been discharged. She looked so small in the large white hospital bed with tubes all attached to her. During the day I read to her. All of her favorite books, one after the other. During the night I held her hand as she slept. I ate whatever food my parents brought for me. Then one day my parents told me that they were going home. And that they had bought a ticket for me as well. I told them no. I told them that I was staying with Halle. I told them I could take care of myself. That she needed me. But they wouldn’t budge. The next morning I boarded a flight to Florida.

Finally, we line up to get on the plane. I roll my bag down the narrow aisle, trying not to get stuck on too many seats in the process. Up into overhead bin. Backpack shoved underneath seat in front. Water bottle and book in seatback pocket. With everything stashed away I hold one last thing in my hands. A gold bracelet, with three small charms of pink, purple, and blue that shimmer gently in the light from the window next to me. I saw it online about a month ago and knew I had to get it for her. I was worried that it wasn’t going to arrive in time to bring it with me. When I stepped out onto the front step with all of my bags and saw the small package, I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my lips. We can be okay. We will be okay.

I jolt awake, my breathing jagged and unbalanced. I can almost feel the cold seeping in like it did in the car. We had the heat blasting and the seat warmers on high, but the car was still freezing even after 15 minutes of driving. We were both in hats and gloves, shivering from the cold. Laughing and joking. I should have been more careful.

The airplane seat arm digs uncomfortably into my side, and my neck is stiff from its tilt against the wall. I can feel a buzzing through my limbs like they want me to get up and run. Run away from it all. It was the first snow of the season. The first winter where we had our own car. She didn’t have her license yet, growing up in a city meant that she never needed a car to get around. So it was up to me. And I screwed up.

My hands feel clammy and my pulse races. I was inexperienced and naive. The snow was piled thick on the road. Coming down in flurries. I was going too fast. Hands on the wheel. The turn caught me by surprise. I couldn’t see it coming up in the distance. The snow blocked out everything. Turn to the left. Quick. To the left. And then we were skidding. And I could hear someone screaming. Whether it was her or me I didn’t know. There was a series of thuds. A crunch of metal. Someone screaming. Someone crying. I couldn’t see. I fumbled around with my left hand, closing my fingers over my phone. I don’t remember dialing 911 but I must have.

If there’s a possibility of damage to the car’s engine, battery, or gas tank. Get out of the car and move to a safe distance. I can see again, but everything is blurry when did everything become so blurry. I shove the door open and tumble out onto the ground. I can feel pain as I push myself to my feet, although where it’s coming from I have no idea. My right shoulder feels damp and sticky and I can see that the windshield has been shattered. The roof is dented. I stumble my way to the other door and yank it open. Halle. Hal. Hal, please. I can’t tell if the words are actually reaching past my lips and escaping into the cold air or if they are stuck inside my throat. I fumble around to her seatbelt and unbuckle it, grabbing her underneath her arms and pulling her out of the car and into the snow. Hal. I can hear her moan as I half-carry half-drag her away from the car. I can’t hear anything, can barely see. I sit in the snow, my arms around her, for what feels like forever.

We’ve been delayed in the air. Our arrival time has been pushed an hour back. And there’s no wifi. I have no way of reaching her and telling her that my flight has been delayed, I just have to hope that she is checking the updates for my flight, hope she wrote down the flight number. I only told it to her when we were talking one night. What if she’s forgotten it and is at the airport waiting for me. Waiting. I can picture her standing there. Getting exhausted after 15 minutes of waiting and finding a nearby bench to sit down. I picture her disappointed face when, after 30 minutes, I’m still not there. If she doesn’t remember the flight number she has no way to know I’ve been delayed. I picture her getting up and leaving. Exiting through the doors without turning back.

I can feel the wheels bumping against the runway pavement. The patches of snow blind me from outside my window. My legs are stiff. My neck hurts from looking down at my book; I had been staring at the same page for I don’t even know how long. Why did I have to choose a seat near the back? When we pull up to the gate people begin to stand up and stretch. I can’t even stand up all the way without bumping my head into the ceiling. I will the people in front of me to move faster. Every moment feels like it’s taking too long. I need to see her. I need to get to her before she leaves. I call her as soon as my phone gets one bar of service but it goes directly to voicemail.

I remember exactly what our apartment looked like when we left that day. The dirty dishes in the sink. The empty bottle of maple syrup left out on the counter from breakfast. Our bedroom door left open and the bed not made. I haven’t been back since it looked like that.

I squeeze my way into the aisle, lift my bag down from the overhead compartment, and painstakingly slowly make my way off the plane. I force myself not to run as I make my way towards the exit. It’s hard to maintain a steady pace when all I want to do is sprint.

The waiting area is packed with people. The enormity of the crowd causes my breath to catch in my throat before I remember to breathe again and release the air out in a slow exhale. I scan the crowd slowly, people jostling me to get by even though I am all the way against a wall. I grip my bags tightly so that I don’t lose them as I glance around me at the crowd.

And then none of that matters because I see her. One braid of her dark hair falls across her face as she sits bent over a book. Her glasses are sliding down her nose, and as I watch she pushes them back up her nose without looking up. The line of a scar disappears into the collar of her jacket, her left arm is in a brace, and I see a pair of crutches nearby that must be hers. But other than that she just looks lonely. Even in the overly crowded room, the spaces beside her are unoccupied, and while her right arm holds her book, her left arm wraps around herself. Even with the warmth of the room, she seems to fold in on herself as if keeping out the cold. I stand there, completely frozen until she looks up and her eyes catch mine.

by C.H.