and all that we intend is scrawled in sand
Flora nods, slow and quiet, her gaze tipping downward as she lets his words settle between them like autumn leaves drifting to the forest floor. Then, with a soft exhale, she shifts just enough to nudge her shoulder against his, a small press of warmth that speaks to the closeness they once shared and still, somehow, manage to carry. "It shouldn’t haunt you," she murmurs, voice the gentle hush of moss underfoot, of water slipping over stone. "That life—the one we didn’t get—it’s still out there somewhere. Our younger selves, wide-eyed and sunburned and hopelessly in love, they get to live it out in some other version of the world. Somewhere, they still fall asleep on my roof and steal pastries and whisper secrets in the dark."
Her smile curves, wistful but sure, and when her eyes lift to his, they glow like tide pools catching the last of the light. "It’s not a ghost, Koa. It’s a memory from another self, another life. You don’t have to carry it like a weight. Just...let it remind you that you know how to love. And in this life?" She leans in a little, her voice dipping with affection and a hint of teasing warmth. "In this life, you get Sohalia. So don’t be a dummy about it."
The playfulness in her tone draws her up and over the edge of sorrow, letting her laugh as he refuses to promise restraint. Groaning dramatically, Flora tosses her head back before fixing him with a look that’s half exasperation and half fondness, the kind of look that only someone who’s known him forever could give. "Ugh, fine." She rolls her eyes for effect, but when her gaze drops to their interlaced hands, the humour softens, quieting into something gentle. Her smile lingers, small and steady. "You know I don’t want to make you forget. But if you refuse," she says, drawing out the pause with theatrical consideration, "I’ll pin you down myself and make you drink it. And I’ll tell everyone the resulting bruises were because you fell out of a tree."
Her fingers tighten slightly around his in one last, grounding squeeze. "I’ll remember it enough for the both of us." The promise hangs there for a breath, then two, before her smile fades into something more solemn, something shaded with the sadness of things she’s never said aloud. Not only would Jack kill Koa for knowing his secret, not only would the captain never forgive Flora for sharing it, but more importantly, it was her weight to bear. And now, with so little of him left in her life, she wasn't willing to part with this last sliver of him that was hers, and hers alone.
Her free hand slips into the pocket of her shorts, retrieving the small vial with a soft clink of glass. She doesn’t let go of him, not yet, not until she glances down at their joined hands and laughs under her breath. "Suppose we can’t be like this after you drink it," she murmurs, voice light but threaded through with goodbye. She gives his hand one last squeeze—gentle, reluctant—before drawing away, the separation like the parting of tide from shore.
She stands slowly, the movement fluid but weighted, and takes a step back into the lengthening gold of light. The vial remains between them, resting where her hand had just been, catching the sunlight like a shard of memory. And Flora, lips pressed together, eyes wide and glistening, looks at him one final time the way you look at someone who once held your entire world, and still, in some small corner, does.
Her smile curves, wistful but sure, and when her eyes lift to his, they glow like tide pools catching the last of the light. "It’s not a ghost, Koa. It’s a memory from another self, another life. You don’t have to carry it like a weight. Just...let it remind you that you know how to love. And in this life?" She leans in a little, her voice dipping with affection and a hint of teasing warmth. "In this life, you get Sohalia. So don’t be a dummy about it."
The playfulness in her tone draws her up and over the edge of sorrow, letting her laugh as he refuses to promise restraint. Groaning dramatically, Flora tosses her head back before fixing him with a look that’s half exasperation and half fondness, the kind of look that only someone who’s known him forever could give. "Ugh, fine." She rolls her eyes for effect, but when her gaze drops to their interlaced hands, the humour softens, quieting into something gentle. Her smile lingers, small and steady. "You know I don’t want to make you forget. But if you refuse," she says, drawing out the pause with theatrical consideration, "I’ll pin you down myself and make you drink it. And I’ll tell everyone the resulting bruises were because you fell out of a tree."
Her fingers tighten slightly around his in one last, grounding squeeze. "I’ll remember it enough for the both of us." The promise hangs there for a breath, then two, before her smile fades into something more solemn, something shaded with the sadness of things she’s never said aloud. Not only would Jack kill Koa for knowing his secret, not only would the captain never forgive Flora for sharing it, but more importantly, it was her weight to bear. And now, with so little of him left in her life, she wasn't willing to part with this last sliver of him that was hers, and hers alone.
Her free hand slips into the pocket of her shorts, retrieving the small vial with a soft clink of glass. She doesn’t let go of him, not yet, not until she glances down at their joined hands and laughs under her breath. "Suppose we can’t be like this after you drink it," she murmurs, voice light but threaded through with goodbye. She gives his hand one last squeeze—gentle, reluctant—before drawing away, the separation like the parting of tide from shore.
She stands slowly, the movement fluid but weighted, and takes a step back into the lengthening gold of light. The vial remains between them, resting where her hand had just been, catching the sunlight like a shard of memory. And Flora, lips pressed together, eyes wide and glistening, looks at him one final time the way you look at someone who once held your entire world, and still, in some small corner, does.
