Raven
I’ve always loved the sound of water.
Not the loud kind, not the kind that drowns everything else out, but this, the steady, quiet movement of it.
The way it slips over stone without asking anything from the world around it, and the way it fills the silence without breaking it, like it understands something about peace the rest of us are still trying to learn.
It’s cooler down here than it is anywhere else.
The air drifts through the trees with a quiet bite that lingers against my skin.
I pull the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands, tucking my fingers into the soft knit as I breathe it in slowly, letting it anchor me in a way that feels almost necessary now.
Sam sits beside me on the flat stretch of rock near the edge of the water, close enough that our shoulders touch. His presence is solid and familiar, steady in a way that’s always made the world feel more manageable, like whatever exists beyond this moment can wait.
For a while, we don’t say anything.
The creek runs steady beside us, the water slipping over stone, catching the light where the surface breaks and reforms, and carrying leaves and small fragments of the world along with it as though none of it matters enough to hold onto.
I watch it long enough that the sound starts to feel like something that could carry me the same way it carries everything else, like it’s smoothing out the edges I didn’t realize had started to fray.
There’s a peace here I don’t find anywhere else.
I draw in another slow breath, deeper this time, and let it out just as carefully.
The light gradually shifts through the trees, the gold softening into something cooler, the shadows stretching longer across the rocks beneath us.
I become aware of the weight of my body in a way I wasn’t when we first sat down.
Fatigue settles into my limbs. I lean into Sam a little more without thinking, letting my shoulder rest more fully against him.
“Do you ever think about after?” I ask, my voice soft.
Sam goes still beside me. “What do you mean?” he asks after a second, his voice steady in a way that tells me he already knows this isn’t a simple question.
I keep my eyes on the water. It’s easier that way. “I don’t know,” I say, even though I do. “Just after.”
The word hangs between us. I draw in a slow breath, steadying myself before I push a little further.
“When things change,” I say, choosing each word carefully, “when it gets harder…” My voice fades before I find the courage to continue. “What happens then?” I ask quietly.
“I’ll be right here,” he says.
I nod because I know he’ll be by my side, but that’s not what I’m asking.
“I know,” I say softly, my fingers tightening slightly in the sleeve of my sweater. “I just mean…”
The words catch in my throat.
“Are you going to stay?” I ask. “Here. At the house.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”
“And the garage?”
“Yeah.”
I watch the creek for a long moment, the water moving steadily past, carrying everything forward whether it’s ready or not. When I speak again, my voice is surer than before.
“You’re going to have to keep going,” I say.
“What?”
“After,” I say softly. “You can’t just stop.”
The silence that follows is different this time. Heavier. Like I’ve crossed an invisible line that neither of us can turn back from.
“Raven—”
“You won’t be alone forever,” I continue, because if I let him interrupt, I won’t finish this, and I need to. “You shouldn’t be.”
He pulls back just enough that I feel the tension that replaces the steady warmth that’s been there all afternoon.
“That’s not happening.”
His voice is firmer now, edged with something that feels too close to anger to ignore.
“Sam, please.”
“No,” he says, the word immediate, unyielding. “You’re not going anywhere.”
The words come fast, like he’s been holding them back and they’ve finally found a way out. I turn just enough to look at him, catching the way his jaw tightens after, the way his eyes don’t quite settle.
“If I had a choice,” I say softly. “I wouldn’t.”
His body stiffens.
“I wouldn’t leave you,” I continue, my voice steady even as something inside me pulls tight. “You know that.”
“Then don’t talk like that.”
The edge in his voice is sharper now, closer to anger, but it isn’t really anger. Not at me, not even at the words themselves, but at the thing behind them. The disease neither of us can stop.
“I wish it worked that way,” I say, my gaze holding his for just a second longer. “I wish wanting it were enough.”
He looks away first. Because we both know it isn’t.
“The choice isn’t mine,” I add, quieter now. “It hasn’t been for a while.”
The words settle between us, heavier than anything we’ve said so far. Final in a way that doesn’t leave room for either of us to pretend we don’t understand.
“I know you want to believe it,” I say gently.
“I don’t want to believe it,” he snaps. “I do believe it.”
The words hang there, too certain, too absolute. But I can see it. The crack in them. The place where they don’t quite hold. It’s small, but it’s there.
“I don’t want you to be alone,” I say after a moment.
He doesn’t answer.
“I don’t want you stuck here,” I continue, my voice steady even as something inside me tightens further. “I don’t want you holding onto me so hard that you don’t let yourself have anything else.”
“Rae, stop.”
“Just listen,” I say firmly enough that he stops. “You have too much life left. You don’t get to spend it wishing for something that’s already gone.”
His hand tightens around mine. “I’m not replacing you.”
“I’m not asking you to,” I say. “I’m asking you not to disappear with me.”
That lands.
I feel it in the way he goes still again, in the way his grip shifts, not letting go, but not quite holding the same either.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything.
The water continues flowing.
The air cools.
Time keeps moving.
“Don’t ask me that,” he says finally, his voice lower now.
“I have to.”
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair before letting it fall, his gaze dropping somewhere between us.
“This isn’t…” He shakes his head once. “This isn’t happening. Not like that.”
But even as he says it, I can hear it.
The part of him that doesn’t quite believe it.
The part that already knows.
I turn my hand in his, holding on just a little tighter.
“Just promise me,” I say softly.
He doesn’t answer right away, and this time I don’t push because I can feel it, the edge of where he is, the place where anything more would force him into something he isn’t ready to face.
I’ve already taken him as far as he can go.
“I’ll try,” he says finally.
It isn’t enough, but it’s everything he has to give.
I let the conversation fall away after that, not because it’s finished, but because it can’t go any further without breaking something neither of us is ready to lose.
And I sit there with him, his hand still in mine, his presence steady beside me, letting the quiet settle back in around us, even as something inside me has already begun to shift.
If he can’t carry this yet, I will.
If he can’t see what’s coming, I will.
And if he can’t make sure he’s going to be okay when I’m gone, then I’ll have to do it for him.