Things That Can't be Held

The boat wreck is behind us, somewhere in the black water. The sea spat us out onto a half-dead stretch of sand and left us for the sky to deal with.

The clouds are violet. The air smells like metal. And I haven't said a word since I woke up on the shore.

He has, though. Of course he has.

"You should drink something," he says, for the third time.

I don't look at him. If I do, I might forget everything the trial just burned into my skin.

Love is dangerous.Love is a curse.He will suffer if he loves you.

And he's already looking at me like he might.

He hands me a waterskin. I take it in silence. Sip once. Then hand it back.

"Still not speaking?" he asks, trying to keep it light. He's soaked, scraped up, but somehow still standing like the world didn't just collapse around us.

I nod once. Then shake my head.

He frowns. "That's cheating. You can't do both."

I glance at him. That was my first mistake. His eyes are too kind. Too real. Too much.

"I'm fine," I say finally, my voice flat. Controlled.

"You don't look fine."

"I don't need to."

We sit in silence for a few moments. The waves lick the shore like they're trying to apologise.

Then he breaks it.

"You could've drowned, you know. Back there."

"I didn't."

"That's not the point."

"It's the only point that matters."

He stands. Paces a little. His hands are restless. Frustrated.

"You're acting like none of this happened. Like the ship didn't sink. Like we didn't almost die. Like you didn't—"

He cuts himself off. But I know what he was going to say.

Like you didn't scream underwater like something was tearing you apart.

"I don't need you to worry about me," I snap.

He pauses. Looks at me like I've just slapped him.

"Yeah, well, I do. So that's inconvenient, isn't it?"

I hate the way my stomach twists. I hate that it feels good. That it feels like something I want to hold.

"You shouldn't," I say. Cold. Cruel. "It'll only get worse."

He stares at me, searching for something behind my words.

"I don't scare easy," he says, quietly.

"Well maybe you should start."

He doesn't say anything after that.

He just walks down the beach, away from me, away from the sea.

And I sit there, cursing the way my chest aches.

Because the trial was right.

This is what the curse does.

The closer they get, the more I have to hurt them to protect them.

Even if it tears me apart in the process.