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Yes, I feel it too.

Yes, I’m still yours in whatever broken way we never managed to fix.

The corner of his mouth lifts. It’s as if he’s restraining himself from something: coming closer, crossing the street, breaking whatever fragile boundary we’re pretending exists. He doesn’t move. Ash stands there under the flickering light, his eyes locked on mine.

I stay at the window, my pulse racing, my skin burning beneath his shirt. I crave the weight of his gaze, the feeling of possession I know I shouldn’t want. There’s a part of me that still relives the memory of him close to Isla and the pain he caused me, but in my heart, I am choosing to believe him. If he crossed the street right now, I wouldn’t stop him.

33

BRYN

Five Years Ago

The sand is so bright it hurts my eyes. The water is clear enough to see straight through to the pale ribs of coral beneath the surface. The air smells like salt and sunscreen. I’m standing on a beach that belongs on a postcard. We’re in the Whitsundays at a luxury rental my stepfather booked the day after he threw Ash out of my bedroom like he was dragging out rubbish. I should feel lucky. That’s what Mum keeps saying.

‘Bryn, look at this place. Isn’t this incredible?’ she says each time she catches my surly expression. I nod when she looks at me, because that’s easier than explaining how truly broken I feel. The way Ash was ripped out of the house replays on a loop in my mind. I’m going crazy not speaking to him, even though I’m so angry and confused.

Within ten minutes of Grant’s explosion that night, my phone was confiscated. My laptop, too; my tablet; even my watch. All were packed into one of Grant’s safes in his closet. Of course no one knows the combination but him. As someone who is admittedly addicted to their phone, I don’t know myself without the constant scrolling, messaging, and photo uploading.

Now I’m here with my toes buried in sand. The sun bakes my shoulders while tourists laugh somewhere down the shore. Mum and Isla are waist-deep in the water. My sister splashes her, shrieking when Mum retaliates. They look untouched by the mess left behind. I watch my sister for too long – the way she pushes her wet hair back, the way she smiles over at me from time to time. Those ugly, festering thoughts creep in again.

What if she liked him? What if he liked her? My mind is stuck on how close they were standing, and the image she sent him after I saw them, her words on his screen. I replay it all, over and over, until my head feels like it is going to explode. Humiliation crawls up my throat like bile. My stomach twists so violently I have to sit down. The ocean sparkles in front of me, endless and blue and perfect. People save up for years to come here. Couples walk hand in hand along the shoreline. A proposal is probably happening somewhere on a boat just beyond the reef, and yet I feel like I’ve been exiled from one of the only things in my life that made me happy.

I wrap my arms around my knees and press my forehead against them. The wind whips strands of hair across my face, and they stick to the tears running down it in tracks. He hasn’t been able to reach me. I wonder if he has tried. Part of me knows he would have. Has he contacted her, too?

I know my thoughts are irrational – Ash doesn’t have my hotel details, nor any clue where I am or how to reach me – but that doesn’t stop me from glancing down the beach, hoping he will appear. I picture him back home, angry, probably deciding that neither of us is worth the chaos. Or even worse, I wonder if he wants her and has forgotten all about me.

Isla looks happier than she has in weeks. She enjoyed taking this from me. Proving she’s better than me is an addiction to her. It’s something she does to show me she’ll always win. It’s not enough for her to have her own things, her own friends, her own life, she has to want mine too. Or maybe she doesn’t want it – maybe she just doesn’t want me to have it. It’s always been like that.

When I was twelve and finally made the netball team, she suddenly ‘missed the sport’ and joined the next season. When I cut my hair short, she cut hers shorter. When a boy in year nine started sitting next to me in science, he appeared at our house the next weekend asking if Isla was home. She sucks up everything around her like it’s oxygen, until there’s none left for anyone else to breathe, and everyone lets her, because Isla is easy to love. Her beauty is what entrances people. She smiles at the right moments. She knows how to tilt her head and look wounded when she’s called out. Mum calls her sensitive. She is the victim in every story. No one ever calls her competitive, but I see it. I always have. She gets a look in her eyes when something good happens to me.

Ash was the only thing that ever felt untouched. He was mine in a way that felt unreachable by competition. I thought he didn’t notice her, which might have been his worst offense of all. What if she couldn’t stand that? The thought slithers through me slowly, poisonous like venom. Maybe she didn’t want him at all; maybe she just needed to prove she could have him.

The ocean sparkles in front of me, endless and blue and perfect. Isla is laughing at something Mum says, throwing her head back like she hasn’t orchestrated the quiet collapse of my life. She doesn’t look guilty. In fact, this is the most like herself she has looked in a while. She looks relieved, almost, as if taking something from me makes her world glow brighter.

I imagine them talking when I wasn’t there: her leaning against the kitchen counter, pretending she didn’t know he was watching; him noticing her beauty for the first time, finally getting to be close to her without me around. The images won’t stop. Isla has always wanted what was mine. Friends. Attention. Praise. Love … the word makes my throat burn. If she took this too – if she took him – then what is left that’s actually mine?

The ocean rolls in and out, steady and indifferent. I wrap my arms tighter around myself. Maybe this is what she’s proving – that she can step into my place whenever she wants. I’m the one left sitting alone on this perfect beach, reminding myself I’ll never be enough. The sun is hot on my back, but I feel cold underneath it. I dig my fingers into the sand until it’s packed hard beneath my nails.

The day slips by and I grow more numb as the minutes drag along. The sun climbs higher, bleaching the world into something unbearable. Mum insists on photos, and Isla throws an arm around her waist. I stand just outside the frame until Mum calls my name. I step in, forcing a smile that feels wrong on my face.

I can feel my light dimming.

The tide rolls in and out. I wade in eventually, because sitting still seems to make the people around me angry. The water is warm, clear, and beautiful, but I feel nothing. Isla swims ahead, her hair fanning out behind her like ink in water, strands of it catching gold in the sunlight. She doesn’t look back to see if I’m following. I tread water a few metres behind her, watching the clean slice of her arms through the surface. Even here, even somewhere as wide and endless as the ocean, she still takes up all the space. The salt clings to my lips.

She turns slightly, laughing at something Mum calls from shore. The sound carries across the water. She looks like someone who hasn’t lost anything. The current shifts subtly beneath us, tugging at my legs. For a second I imagine letting it pull me farther out. Far enough that no one expects anything from me. Instead, I stay where I am, watching her silhouette against the glittering blue, thinking how easy it would be to hold her down and not let go.

I sink under for a second, letting the salt sting my eyes. For a singular but suspended moment, I imagine what it would be like if she didn’t exist. I imagine a reality with no older sister casting a shadow over me. In this version, it’s just me. The thought loosens something ugly inside my chest. If she didn’t exist, maybe I wouldn’t always feel slightly misplaced.

My lungs start to burn. I kick toward the surface before the ache in my chest becomes panic. Air hits me and I inhale urgently; I’ve been under longer than a few seconds. I wipe salt from my eyes and glance toward the shore. Mum is waving and calling something about lunch. Isla is closer to her now, heading back to the sand. I’m still between them and the reef, between wanting to disappear and wanting to be seen. The water rocks me gently, lifting and lowering my body in a slow rhythm. I float on my back. The sun presses against my closed eyelids, red, warm, and heavy.

If I vanished, would anything actually change? The thought isn’t supposed to be dramatic; it’s just how she makes me feel. Isla would take up the extra space without effort. A swell rolls under me unexpectedly, tipping me sideways. Water rushes into my ear. I right myself quickly. I start swimming in, each stroke more difficult than it should be. By the time my feet touch sand, I feel scraped raw from the inside out. Isla glances at me as I emerge, her expression unreadable for half a second before it smooths into something that seems pleasant to the untrained eye. When I look at her, I see him, and the weight in my chest feels too heavy for me to carry.

I trail behind them back to the house, sand clinging to my damp feet. Mum chatters about boat tours for tomorrow. By late afternoon the sky begins to soften, blue bleeding into an apricot orange. The heat lifts just enough to make the air feel breathable again. Cicadas start singing in the trees around the house.

The night drags on and I move robotically. Showers run. Doors open and close. The scent of coconut shampoo and grilled fish fill the house. Cutlery clinks against plates. Grant pours wine for himself and Mum, casting many frowns in my direction.

The first time I feel like I’ve breathed all day is when I’m finally alone, in bed, surrounded by darkness. Ash used to crawl into my bed and whisper that he couldn’t sleep without me, that I was his after midnight. But now I’m the one who can’t sleep. In this beautiful house overlooking the water, I lie awake listening to waves crash against rocks, my mind utterly consumed by him.