1. Charlotte Gallagher
Charlotte Gallagher
The scrape of stone against metal carries through the air, followed by a brief pause as he tests the sharp edge with his thumb.
I sit in the shade near the edge of the sand, watching Dane sharpen the spear like I’ve seen him do countless times before.
He’s crouched near the fire pit, one knee pressed into the sand, completely focused. His movements are steady, controlled in a way they weren’t in the beginning. When we first ended up here, nothing he made quite worked. His early spears were crooked, the tips uneven, the shafts warped.
Now everything he builds is exact.
The island did that to him.
Over time, I’ve watched the hesitation disappear in him. He’s turned into someone who doesn’t second-guess himself anymore. There’s a certainty in the way he works—a quality that only comes from doing the same thing over and over until it becomes instinct.
The stone drags against the blade again, the sound carrying easily.
We haven’t spoken in hours. Not because anything happened between us. Silence has become normal. It settled in after Ryan died, and it never really left. Most days, we move around each other saying only what’s necessary about food, the weather, or whatever needs fixing next.
Everything else stays unsaid.
His gaze lifts toward the ocean the way it always does. Even now, he still checks the horizon again and again, scanning that empty line where the water meets the sky.
Old habits don’t go away easily.
His eyes pass over me quickly without stopping. It’s subtle, small enough that most people wouldn’t notice. But I do.
He’s careful not to look at me. If I move closer, he drifts the other way. When we pass near each other, there’s always a slight adjustment to keep from touching. He never makes a show of it, but the distance is deliberate.
And it matters more than I want it to.
I look away, letting my attention drift around the camp instead.
The shelter sits beneath the palms, patched and reinforced so many times that nothing original remains. The fire pit rests at the center of the clearing, ringed with smooth stones. Beyond that, the sand stretches out until it meets the ocean.
Everything here is familiar.
Every tree. Every stretch of sand. Every narrow path worn into the ground from years of walking the same routes.
We’ve been stranded on this island for eight years. It feels smaller than it used to—like the edges of our world have slowly folded inward until it became this strip of beach and jungle.
And now that there are only two of us left, it somehow feels smaller.
There’s no older brother to cut through the tension with a joke. No younger brother trailing behind us, asking endless questions.
Only silence. And everything we don’t say.
The steady scrape continues. I glance at Dane, watching the way he leans over the spear as he works. His dark hair falls across his forehead, and he brushes it back with his wrist before focusing on the blade again.
He looks completely self-contained. Capable. Like someone who could stay out here forever and never need anything from anyone.
A thought has been circling in my head for weeks now, showing up no matter how hard I try to ignore it: Dane would be happier if it were just him.
At first, it felt like something I could brush off, a passing thought that didn’t mean anything. But lately, it’s harder to dismiss.
He doesn’t need me for survival. He never did. And he definitely never wanted me here in the first place. He’s been very clear about that.
The realization stings, but there’s a strange clarity in it too. Because the truth is, the island is big—much bigger than the small part of it we’ve claimed as ours all these years.
There are freshwater streams in the jungle. Coconut groves on the far side. Whole stretches of beach we barely go near anymore.
We don’t actually have to live together.
I spent years watching Ryan—and now Dane—survive out here. I know how he builds shelter, sets traps, finds water even when the dry season drags on.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped needing things explained to me. I learned by watching.
And now the truth settles into place. I could survive on my own. Not because I’ve become stronger, but because I was always paying attention, learning from him and Ryan.
My gaze drifts back to Dane. He still hasn’t looked up, all his focus on the spear as he sharpens it.
The decision that’s been forming in the back of my mind locks into place. With me gone, he’ll have this side of the island to himself. The way he always wanted.
I press my hands into the sand and push myself to my feet, brushing the grit from my palms. For a moment, the scraping stops, and I feel his attention shift toward me. Then the sound starts again.
Inside the shelter, I start gathering what I need—just the essentials, a few personal things.
I pause, looking around and taking it in. This has been my home for eight years. And I won’t be sleeping here tonight. Leaving it doesn’t feel real yet.
I crouch near the back wall and pull a bag from its hook, the strap worn soft from years of use.
Everything we have is worn.
I don’t need much. That’s the strange thing about living out here. After enough time, you realize how little it actually takes to keep going.
The knife I keep beside my pallet is coming with me. It’s one of the few things I’m not leaving behind.
I slip it into the bag.
Next, I grab a couple of plastic water bottles and tuck them in beside it. A short coil of cord. The length of rope I braided from palm fibers. A few extra clothes and shoes.
I hold the bag open, looking down at what I’ve packed.
There are other things I could take, but I leave them where they are for now. I’ll return later for more supplies.
Everything I’ve chosen fits easily inside. The bag is light for something that holds my entire future.
Outside, the scraping stops, and Dane’s voice drifts in. “What are you doing in there?”
I step out of the shelter with the bag slung over my shoulder. His gaze lifts—first to the bag, then to me.
“I’m going to move.”
For a second, he just stares. Then his brow pulls together, confusion replacing the indifference that had been there before. “Move where?”
I adjust the strap on my shoulder. “I don’t have a particular spot picked out yet.”
All of his attention is on me now.
“Why would you want to move the camp? We’ve been here the whole time.”
His eyes lock on mine, waiting, and I take a breath.
“I’m moving to the other side of the island. Just me.”
For a moment, nothing changes. Then I see it—the exact second it clicks.
Dane straightens, the spear forgotten. “You’re joking.”
I shake my head. “I’m not.”
His eyes flick to the bag on my shoulder. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
A long silence stretches between us. I can almost see him turning it over in his mind, trying to find a version of this that makes sense.
“You mean for a few days… to clear your head or something?”
“No.” I hold his gaze. “I mean for good.”
That’s when his irritation starts to show. It pulls tight at the corners of his mouth, sharpening his jaw. “Why would you do that?”
I glance past him, out toward the ocean, where the morning sunlight shimmers across the surface.
“The island’s big enough. We don’t both have to stay here.”
He lets out a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh—but there’s no humor in it.
“Charlotte—”
“There are freshwater streams on the other side and coconut groves. I’ve seen them.”
“Oh, you’ve seen them, huh?” There’s irritation in his voice, something harder creeping in beneath it.
“Both of us can survive on our own. We don’t have to keep living on top of each other like this.”
His eyes snap to mine. “Living on top of each other?”
I break the eye contact because this is harder than I thought it would be.
“It doesn’t have to be like this.”
Something shifts in him.
“You think you’re going to go off and build yourself a little camp somewhere else?”
His disbelief is gone now. What’s left is sharper—edged with something darker.
“I can manage.”
He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “You can manage?”
“Yes, Dane. I’m capable of taking care of myself.”
He studies me, and I can see his instincts kicking in. They’re the same ones that have kept us alive all these years, always measuring risk and running through the possible outcomes.
“You don’t know what you’re doing out there.”
“I do.”
His eyebrows lift. “Oh, you do?”
“I’ve been watching you for years.”
“You think watching me is the same as actually doing it?”
“I know it’s not, but I’ve learned things from you. And from Ryan.”
The silence that follows isn’t the same as before—it’s heavier, thicker. Even more awkward, if that’s possible.
It’s obvious we’ve reached an impasse.
“You won’t last two days out there.” The certainty in his voice irritates me.
“I will.”
“You don’t know the terrain, where it floods when the storms come, or what’s out there—sea snakes, things hiding where you won’t see them until it’s too late.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“You’ll figure it out.” His gaze sharpens. “That’s just perfect.”
Another long silence stretches between us, then something colder settles over his expression.
“And what exactly is the point of this?”
There are too many answers, and none of them are easy to say out loud. So I go with the simplest one.
“We don’t have to keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
I gesture between us. “This.”
The space. The silence. The careful distance.
I hate every second of it.
He mirrors the gesture. “I don’t know what this is.”
“You hate me, Dane. You always have.”
I’ve never said it out loud before. Now that I have, it hurts more.
“You don’t want me here. Message received.”
For a moment, Dane doesn’t move, his expression going completely blank.
“That’s what you think?”
I swallow, forcing myself to stay steady and not show him how much he’s hurt me over the years. “You’ve made it very clear.”
His brows pull together. “Oh, I have?”
“Yes.”
A short, humorless laugh slips out of him. “You think I hate you?” He shakes his head. “Wow, you really don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me. Because I really want to understand.”
For a second, he looks like he might. I see it building—the words right there, something raw and volatile just beneath the surface.
But it never comes.
Whatever he was about to say shuts down before it reaches his mouth, and something colder takes its place. “You want to go live somewhere else? Fine. But you’re going to get yourself killed.”
“One less thing for you to worry about then.”
The words hang there for a beat before he lets out a rough breath.
“Fine.”
I watch him, hoping he’ll tell me to stay. Instead, his expression goes completely cold.
“You’re an adult, and you can make your own decisions. Leave if that’s what you want to do.”
“I think it’s for the best.”
His eyes lock onto mine. Then he gives a short, dismissive nod. “Then go. I don’t care.”
His dismissal hits harder than I expect.
For a moment, neither of us moves. I search his face for something—anything—that says he doesn’t mean it. Some hesitation. Some regret.
There’s nothing there.
Part of me had hoped—just a little—that he’d ask me to stay. That he’d say something different.
But I knew he’d let me go.
I nod once and adjust the strap of the bag on my shoulder. “I’ll come back for Pearl once I’m settled and have built her a new coop. You can keep Coral.”
His eyes follow me as I pass—I can feel it without looking. And still, he says nothing.
This place has been our whole world for eight years. Leaving it should feel terrifying. Instead, it just feels sad.
A dull ache settles in my chest as I reach the edge of the clearing where the sand gives way to the first line of trees. I pause there for a moment.
This is the right thing. That’s what I tell myself. Dane deserves space. Peace. If leaving gives him that, then it’s worth it.
Even if it hurts.
The sand crunches beneath my feet as I follow the narrow path along the edge of the beach. For a few steps, there’s nothing but the wind moving through the palms and the distant rhythm of waves breaking against the reef.
Then I hear it.
Movement.
Dane.
My heart jumps before I can stop it. I slow without meaning to, waiting—for his voice, for my name, for anything that will make me turn around.
Another step behind me.
For one brief, fragile second, I’m sure he’s coming after me. But his voice never comes.
After a few seconds, the sound fades, leaving only the wind and the ocean again. I keep walking, and the quiet tells me everything I didn’t want to believe.
I thought leaving would feel like freedom.
It doesn’t.
It feels more like exile.