Theea
one day, I'll be out of time
And I just wanna feel alive
And I just wanna feel alive
I find the big palm tree again.
Still alive, somehow, despite the lightning strike—whenever that was. A split runs down the middle, old and jagged. There, with careful fingers, I tuck a small letter bound in twine, two feathers threaded through the knot. One golden-brown from Remi, warm and comforting. The other fiery from Ronin, full of promise and life. I let my fingers trail over them before placing a loose piece of bark over the letter, hiding it from view, weighing it down against the wind.
The breeze picks up, sharp with the season’s change, rustling through the palms above. I glance around, half-hoping to catch her watching. A wolf. A hummingbird. Her face.
There’s nothing.
I always tell myself I won’t get my hopes up again—and still, I do. Every time.
I try to shake it off and keep walking, the sand cool now as it slips between my bare toes. My father’s old jacket hangs loose around me, sleeves rolled at the wrists, hem brushing the back of my thighs. Beneath it, the pale blue dress moves like water with every gust. The first one I’ve worn since turning nineteen. It still feels strange—soft, flowing fabric instead of worn clothes or travel gear—but I’m not uncomfortable. Just aware.
I know it’s close. Somewhere. I’ll stumble across it one day, won’t I? If I keep walking the shoreline, keep scanning the trees?
I frown and kick at the sand. Walk.
And walk.
And walk—
—until the coastline blurs together and I’m sure I’ve gone too far. So I turn back.
Back to the tree.
The letter is still there, bark undisturbed, guarding it like something sacred. The wind has picked up, dark strands whipping across my face. I sweep them away, reach for my canteen and take a long drink. I stare out at the water and the way the waves whisper and pull, whisper and pull, over and over against the shore.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, voice low.
Still alive, somehow, despite the lightning strike—whenever that was. A split runs down the middle, old and jagged. There, with careful fingers, I tuck a small letter bound in twine, two feathers threaded through the knot. One golden-brown from Remi, warm and comforting. The other fiery from Ronin, full of promise and life. I let my fingers trail over them before placing a loose piece of bark over the letter, hiding it from view, weighing it down against the wind.
The breeze picks up, sharp with the season’s change, rustling through the palms above. I glance around, half-hoping to catch her watching. A wolf. A hummingbird. Her face.
There’s nothing.
I always tell myself I won’t get my hopes up again—and still, I do. Every time.
I try to shake it off and keep walking, the sand cool now as it slips between my bare toes. My father’s old jacket hangs loose around me, sleeves rolled at the wrists, hem brushing the back of my thighs. Beneath it, the pale blue dress moves like water with every gust. The first one I’ve worn since turning nineteen. It still feels strange—soft, flowing fabric instead of worn clothes or travel gear—but I’m not uncomfortable. Just aware.
I know it’s close. Somewhere. I’ll stumble across it one day, won’t I? If I keep walking the shoreline, keep scanning the trees?
I frown and kick at the sand. Walk.
And walk.
And walk—
—until the coastline blurs together and I’m sure I’ve gone too far. So I turn back.
Back to the tree.
The letter is still there, bark undisturbed, guarding it like something sacred. The wind has picked up, dark strands whipping across my face. I sweep them away, reach for my canteen and take a long drink. I stare out at the water and the way the waves whisper and pull, whisper and pull, over and over against the shore.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, voice low.
look mama, i can fly
