TWO / MOJABI GHOST.

❛ no sé a quién le miento si esto
que siento no me deja dormir ❜

𓇼

𝕿he house was quiet. Too quiet. It sat on the edge of the cul-de-sac, perched like an unwelcome guest in a town that once felt like hers but now felt foreign, distorted by time. Isla sat on the porch, her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on the soft fabric of her sweatshirt. The warm light from the setting sun painted the world in hues of orange and gold, but it failed to touch her. She stared past the tree line, where the horizon bled into the sea, its vastness both familiar and strange.

Her fingers absentmindedly traced the grain of the wooden porch beneath her, the grooves rough but grounding. She wasn't sure why she had sat down here-maybe for air, maybe for clarity-but neither came. The events of yesterday replayed in her head with an almost cruel precision. Every sharp word, every look of disdain in Oliver's eyes. He had stared at her like she was a stranger. Like she wasn't the girl who used to climb the docks with him, who used to sit on the sand and dream about a life bigger than this town.

Her chest tightened as the memory unspooled again, vivid and raw. She clenched her jaw, trying to swallow it down, but it lingered, sticking to her like saltwater to skin. Isla could still feel the sting of his words. Why did you come back, Isla? It had been more than an accusation; it was a rejection, plain and simple. And now the question haunted her, echoing through her mind as though the answer might reveal itself if she thought about it hard enough.

Maybe I shouldn't have come back at all, she thought bitterly, the corners of her lips tugging downward. She tightened her arms around her knees, curling inward as if she could shield herself from the weight of it all.

The sound of gravel crunching beneath tires broke the stillness. Isla glanced toward the driveway, her breath catching in her throat as the car door slammed shut. For a fleeting moment, her stomach dropped-Oliver? But no, it wasn't him. The silhouette was slimmer, more deliberate.

Before she could piece it together, the figure was striding up the steps, blonde hair catching the light like a halo.

"Are you serious right now?" Sarah Cameron's voice cut through the quiet, sharp and incredulous. Isla blinked as Sarah stopped in front of her, hands on her hips, looking every bit the hurricane she had always been.

"Sarah," Isla breathed, sitting up straighter.

"You didn't tell me you were back? Are you kidding?" Sarah demanded, her blue eyes narrowing. There was no mistaking the disbelief-or the hint of hurt-etched across her face.

Isla opened her mouth to respond but found herself faltering, her words stuck somewhere between her throat and her heart.

"I-I wasn't sure-" she started, but Sarah waved a hand, cutting her off.

"Don't even try to explain," Sarah said, her tone exasperated but not unkind. "You've been back for what, two days? And you didn't think to call me? Text me? Smoke signal me? Seriously, Isla."

"I wasn't sure anyone would care," Isla admitted, her voice quieter now, almost fragile. She dropped her gaze, focusing on the way the shadows stretched across the porch.

Sarah softened, her stance shifting as she crouched down slightly to catch Isla's eyes. "Hey," she said, her voice gentler now. "Don't say that. Of course we care. I care."

Isla looked up, and for the first time that evening, she felt a flicker of something other than dread. It wasn't quite relief, but it was close.

"Okay, well, now that you're back," Sarah continued, her voice regaining its usual energy, "you're coming with me tonight. No excuses."

Isla blinked, her brows furrowing in confusion. "Coming where?"

Sarah grinned, straightening up and dusting off her hands. "There's a party. A proper Kook party. You know, alcohol, shitty gossip, the works."

"I don't think-" Isla started, but Sarah cut her off with a dramatic groan.

"No. Nope. You're not doing that," Sarah said, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "You're not hiding in this house and moping. I'm not letting you."

"I'm not moping," Isla muttered, though her tone lacked conviction.

Sarah raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. "Please. You're sitting on your porch in a sweatshirt like you're in some Adele's music video."

Isla couldn't help the small huff of laughter that escaped her. It was reluctant, but it was there.

"There it is," Sarah said, satisfied. "Now go inside, get dressed, and meet me at my car in twenty minutes. You owe me at least that much."

Isla hesitated, glancing toward the door, then back at Sarah. "I don't know if I'm ready for-"

"You're ready," Sarah interrupted, her voice firm but encouraging. "Trust me. One night won't kill you. Besides," she added with a wink, "I'll be there to rescue you if it gets too much."

Isla sighed, the weight in her chest still heavy but not unbearable. Sarah's presence, as overwhelming as it could be, was also oddly reassuring.

"Fine," she said at last, standing and brushing off her jeans. "But if this is a disaster, I'm blaming you."

"Deal," Sarah said, already turning on her heel and heading down the steps. She glanced over her shoulder with a grin. "Now hurry up. I'm not waiting all night."

Isla watched her go, the sound of her sandals fading into the evening. For the first time in days, she felt something close to hope. It was small, tentative, but it was there, like the first glimmer of light breaking through the clouds.

Then she closed the door behind her and leaned against it, the cool wood pressing into her back. The silence inside the house was oppressive, thick enough to wrap around her throat. She stood there for a moment, letting out a long breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Sarah's energy lingered in the air, a stark contrast to the stillness that seemed to envelop the house the moment Isla stepped back inside.

She stood at the threshold of her room, her fingers ghosting over the edge of the doorframe. The space hadn't changed, not in the slightest. It was unnervingly static, as though it had been locked in time, untouched by the year she had spent away. The wells was still the same muted blue she had chosen when she was eleven, a relic of simpler days when she believed that color could somehow soften her sharp edges. The books on the shelf were arranged just as she'd left them-spines straight, titles faded from sun and time.

She stepped inside cautiously, like she was afraid of disturbing something sacred, though the silence that greeted her felt anything but holy. The air carried a faint mustiness, the kind that comes from neglect, mingled with the ghost of a perfume she hadn't worn in years. Isla traced her fingertips along the edge of her dresser, the wood cool beneath her touch, her reflection catching her off guard as she glanced up.

The girl in the mirror wasn't the girl who had left this room. She wasn't the girl who had packed a suitcase in a fit of determination and slammed the door behind her, convinced she was never coming back. This girl-this woman-was worn in ways that couldn't be measured by years alone. Her eyes, dark and restless, carried the weight of countless sleepless nights, and her mouth, once quick to smile, now settled into a line that was neither frown nor grin.

She turned away sharply, unable to bear the sight of herself. It was easier to focus on the mundane. The small things. The dress she pulled from the closet was yellow, simple, an old favorite she hadn't thought about in ages. It felt safe, in a way-like armor, even if it was just cotton and thread. She laid it out on the bed and sat down beside it, her hands smoothing the fabric as her gaze drifted to the window.

Outside, the sun was beginning its descent, casting long shadows that stretched across the lawn. The town beyond was as familiar as the lines on her palm, yet alien in the way that all places become when they are only memories. Isla could see the faint outline of the ocean in the distance, its waves muted under the fading light. She wondered if it would still smell the same-briny and sharp, like it could cut through anything.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, jolting her from her thoughts. A text from Sarah:

Sarah

"Are you still there? Get your ass out here
before I drag you out myself."

✓

Isla exhaled, a sharp breath that felt like it might carry all her nerves with it, though it didn't. She stood and slipped into the dress, the fabric cool against her skin. She brushed her hair quickly, the movements mechanical, and swiped on a bit of makeup-just enough to make herself feel less exposed.

The horn blared outside, loud and impatient. Sarah's signature move.

Isla grabbed her bag and headed downstairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. The house was eerily quiet, her father likely holed up in his study, the way he always was. She hesitated at the front door, her hand resting on the knob. For a moment, she considered going back to her room, shutting the door, and pretending she hadn't heard anything. But Sarah's voice echoed in her mind.

She opened the door.

Sarah's car was parked in the driveway, the headlights cutting through the early evening haze. The windows were down, and Sarah was leaning out, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulder in waves. She grinned when she saw Isla, a grin so wide it was almost disarming.

"Finally," Sarah called, her voice carrying easily. "I was starting to think you were going to stand me up."

Isla descended the porch steps slowly, her heels clicking against the wood. "You know me better than that," she said, though her tone was quieter than she intended.

Sarah's eyes roamed over her, taking in the dress, the braid, the faint sheen of gloss on her lips. "You clean up nice," she said, approval laced with just a hint of teasing.

"Thanks," Isla said, sliding into the passenger seat. The interior of the car smelled like Sarah's perfume-bright and citrusy, sharp enough to sting if you breathed it in too deeply.

Sarah shifted the car into drive, the engine rumbling as they pulled out onto the road. For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn't easy, either.

The town unfolded around them in fragments-familiar streets, old haunts, places that tugged at Isla's memory like loose threads. She stared out the window, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her bag.

"You're quiet," Sarah said, glancing at her out of the corner of her eye.

"Just tired," Isla replied, though it was a half-truth at best.

Sarah didn't press, but her grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. "You'll be fine," she said after a moment, her voice softer.

Isla turned to look at her, surprised by the sudden gentleness.

"I mean it," Sarah said, her eyes still on the road. "You're not the same girl who left, Isla. You're stronger now. People will see that."

Isla didn't respond, but the knot in her chest loosened just a little.

The house came into view sooner than she expected, its windows glowing warmly against the encroaching dark. The music reached them before they even parked, a steady beat that vibrated through the air.

Sarah pulled into the driveway and turned to Isla, her expression serious. "Stick with me, okay?" she said. "It's easier that way."

Isla nodded, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. As they stepped out of the car, the night air hit her, cool and laced with the scent of salt and grass. The night had settled in deep, the dark expanse of the ocean stretching endlessly in the distance, but the mansion-the sprawling Kook mansion-was bathed in light. String lights crisscrossed above the crowd, their glow warm and golden, almost too perfect. It was the kind of radiance that made everything look curated, like a scene carefully staged for a movie, except Isla couldn't shake the feeling that she was on the wrong side of the lens.

She stood at the edge of the party, close enough to see the lively chatter, the laughing faces, the easy air of affluence. Her heels dug into the soft grass beneath her feet, the ground far too grounded, far too real, while the world around her felt like it was floating-untouchable. The laughter carried over in waves, too smooth, too rehearsed. It was a performance, a dance of privilege that Isla had once been a part of and yet now felt strangely distanced from.

Sarah, however, seemed to glide through the crowd with the ease of someone who was born for this. Her blonde hair caught the light, a halo of effortless glamour, and her laughter was sharp and bright, pulling people in like a magnet. Isla felt a pang of envy-just a small one, a flicker of something in her chest-before pushing it down, suppressing it beneath the weight of the events that had led her here. She tried to follow Sarah's lead, smile a little more, stand a little taller, but it was hard when everything about this place seemed so unfamiliar now.

It was a strange feeling, this. Being surrounded by faces she once knew, people who had once been her people, and yet now...now it felt like she had never really belonged here at all. Her skin itched as she adjusted the strap of her dress, its soft fabric clinging to her like a second skin, like something that didn't quite fit. The dress, the setting, the glamour-it all felt like a costume she had been made to wear, one she didn't quite know how to take off.

And then, as if summoned by the force of her unease, the first voice cut through the air-sharp, smooth, and laced with that unmistakable edge. Ruthie.

"Didn't think you'd come back," she said, her tone playful but not in the least bit warm. It was the kind of statement that said so much more than the words themselves. Ruthie's smile was the kind that never reached her eyes, her arms crossed over her chest in a way that made her seem both confident and cold, like she had already decided who Isla was and where she belonged.

Isla's heart did a little lurch-half in surprise, half in discomfort-and she forced her body to hold steady, to pretend this was just another casual encounter. Her lips stretched into a smile, but it felt brittle, as if the muscles weren't quite sure how to cooperate. "Something like that," Isla replied, her voice steady, betraying none of the fluttering unease in her chest. She didn't know if it was a lie or the truth anymore. Maybe it was both. Maybe the Kooks-her people-were as foreign to her now as she was to them.

Ruthie's eyes glinted in the soft glow of the lights, taking in Isla with that cool, calculating gaze. She looked the same as she always had, polished, pristine, perfect. Her hair was flawless, her makeup done with the kind of precision that made her look like she'd stepped out of an editorial spread. "I always thought you were above all this," Ruthie said, her voice a little too sweet, a little too biting. "The lifestyle. Guess you missed it after all."

Isla felt a slow burn rise in her chest, but she kept her face neutral, the mask firmly in place. "You know me," she said, her smile just a fraction tighter now. "I'm not the one for luxury." The words came out like a dare, like she was challenging Ruthie to see if she could still hit her mark.

Ruthie tilted her head slightly, as though she were evaluating Isla, like a piece of art she wasn't sure whether to appreciate or dismiss. Her friends, standing behind her, exchanged glances, their laughter fading into whispers, like they were all waiting for the show to unfold. The weight of their attention pressed down on Isla, but she held herself steady.

Then, to Isla's surprise, Sarah's hand found her shoulder, her fingers light but firm. It was a small gesture, but it was enough to anchor her-enough to keep her grounded, even if just for a moment. Sarah's voice was soft but pointed, directed more at the crowd than at Ruthie. "So nice to see everyone again," she said, her smile genuine, though the edge of her words was clear. "Isla's just getting reacquainted. But I'm sure you all have plenty to catch up on too, right?"

Ruthie's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second-barely noticeable, but Isla caught it. A quiet, unspoken thing that lingered before she recovered with that sharpness, that polished ease. "Of course," she said, turning to her friends. "I'll leave you two to it. Don't want to keep you from catching up." She practically purred the last word, her tone dripping with faux sweetness before she turned to leave, her entourage trailing after her like obedient shadows.

Isla let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her body still tight from the confrontation. Sarah's hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment longer before she let it fall, her eyes soft with understanding. "You okay?" she asked, her voice quiet but concerned.

Isla nodded, her smile genuine this time, though the unease hadn't quite dissipated. "I'm fine," she said, though she wasn't sure who she was convincing more-Sarah or herself.

The party raged on around them, but Isla felt oddly disconnected from it all. The noise, the laughter, the perfect, curated glamour of the Kooks-it was all a little too much. She was starting to realize that maybe she'd never really fit into this world, not in the way they expected her to. Not in the way they wanted her to.

She glanced at Sarah, who gave her a smile of encouragement, and though Isla appreciated the effort, a small part of her wished she could find a way to slip away from it all-to vanish into the shadows where it felt safer..

The walked through the bar, it was crowded, the lights dimmed just enough to create an air of intimacy, but Isla felt the weight of every pair of eyes on her as she stood there, nursing a drink that had long lost its appeal. Sarah was off somewhere, mingling with some other group, leaving Isla with the faint hum of music and the clink of glasses as her only company. She shifted from one foot to the other, not quite comfortable in her own skin. The alcohol burned slightly as she took another sip, though it didn't seem to dull the sharp edge of tension that had settled between her ribs.

It was then that she felt it-the familiar, unnerving pull of someone's presence, as though the air shifted when he entered. She didn't need to turn to know who it was.

Rafe.

His silhouette appeared in the doorway, framed by the golden light spilling in from the mansion's sprawling patio. He moved with that fluid, almost predatory confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power his presence commanded. His blond hair, tousled and effortlessly styled, framed his face, and the smirk that tugged at his lips was the same one Isla remembered all too well. It was the kind of smile that made her skin prickle with annoyance, but underneath that annoyance was something else-something darker, something she was trying desperately not to acknowledge.

He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the room before they landed on her. That moment felt like eternity, a static beat that stretched out as their gazes locked. His eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of seeing her here, as if he'd known, as if he had expected it.

Then, he was walking toward her, the space between them shrinking, the inevitable conversation hanging in the air like a heavy cloud. He leaned against the bar next to her, too close, too familiar. His presence was almost suffocating, like the space between them had somehow become both too small and too charged.

"Didn't think I'd see you here," Rafe said, his voice low and smooth, a lazy drawl that seemed to wrap itself around each word. "What's the matter, the Pogues finally bored you?"

Isla's eyes flicked to him briefly, but her expression remained guarded, a mask she wore out of habit. She didn't want to play this game with him-not tonight, not here-but there was something about his proximity, his damn smug grin, that made it impossible to just ignore him. Her fingers tightened around the glass in her hand, the coldness of it offering no solace.

"I'm not here for you, Rafe," Isla said, her voice cool, but even she could hear the slight tremor of something she couldn't quite place. Was it annoyance? Desire? Both?

Rafe's grin widened, just enough to show that he knew exactly what she was feeling. He leaned in slightly, his gaze never leaving hers, the air thickening with unspoken things. "Shame," he said, his voice dropping an octave, sending a jolt through her. "You should be."

Isla fought to keep her composure, but the playful, almost mocking tone of his voice made her blood run hot. She felt herself reacting to him in ways she didn't want to, ways that made her feel weak, like she was losing control of the very ground she stood on. His words had a way of digging under her skin, drawing out the parts of her she'd buried, the parts that told her to fight and flee all at once.

For a moment, she was silent, her gaze still locked with his, both of them standing there like two opposing forces, neither willing to back down. Rafe had always known how to get to her, how to twist the knife just enough to make her second-guess herself. The way he watched her now-half-amused, half-eager-reminded her of why she had left in the first place.

"You've always been full of yourself, haven't you?" Isla said, her tone sharp, but even she could hear the underlying edge of something softer, something more vulnerable that she quickly masked.

Rafe chuckled, the sound low and husky, as if he were enjoying the sparring. "Oh, I'm just getting started," he teased, his hand brushing the edge of his glass, the action casual but deliberate. His fingers, long and graceful, traced the rim, and Isla couldn't help but notice how those same fingers had once held her close, had once touched her in ways that made everything feel too real, too dangerous.

She swallowed hard, taking a step back, needing distance, needing to remind herself that this-whatever this was-was a game she was no longer interested in playing. Not with him.

"Keep dreaming," Isla said, the words cutting through the space between them like a knife. "You've got a lot of that, don't you?"

Rafe's eyes sparkled with amusement, his smirk only deepening. There was something magnetic about him, something that made it impossible to look away, even when every instinct screamed at her to turn and walk away. She could feel it, that magnetic pull, and it was almost suffocating. He was dangerous-always had been-and yet she couldn't deny that a part of her wanted to give in, to let him pull her back into whatever this was, even if it was just for a moment.

But she wouldn't. She wouldn't let him.

"Maybe I do," he said, his voice low and almost playful now, the sharpness in his words replaced by something else, something that felt more like a challenge. "But you know what? I think you miss it. You miss the the chaos. Me."

Isla's heart skipped a beat, her mouth going dry. She didn't respond right away, her gaze flicking to the side as if she could find escape in the busy crowd. But she knew she couldn't outrun the tension, the history, the attraction that had always simmered between them. It was like a fire waiting to ignite, and no matter how much she told herself she was done with it, part of her still longed for that heat.

Instead, she forced herself to smile, but it was tight, thin, like a mask she could barely hold in place. "You're delusional," she said, her words sharp, the bite more for herself than him. "I don't miss anything about you, Rafe."

But even as she said it, she knew the lie tasted bitter on her tongue.

His smirk softened, just slightly, and for a moment, she thought he might back off, might let the moment pass. But instead, his expression turned more deliberate, more aware, like he was deciding something, weighing her like an unreadable puzzle.

"How about a walk?" he asked, his voice quieter now, laced with something that wasn't quite teasing, but still that same confident undertone. He gestured toward the open doors leading to the beach, the soft waves crashing against the shore, bathed in moonlight. "You don't have to stay here. This place is... noisy."

Isla hesitated, her body stiff, her heart a little too loud in her chest. She didn't want to go with him. Didn't want to be alone with him. She could already imagine the things he would say, the way he would try to pull answers out of her. But she also knew, deep down, that she wanted to. She didn't understand it, but she wanted to feel the cool night air, wanted to get away from the suffocating social scene. She wanted space. Maybe more than that. Maybe she wanted to see if this-whatever this was-could be something she could control.

Without saying a word, she nodded, stiffly, and followed him toward the beach.

The moonlight settled heavily over the beach, turning the dark waves into rippling silver, stretching across the horizon like a secret only the night knew. Isla walked beside Rafe, the sand soft beneath her feet, but it felt wrong-too quiet, too familiar in a way she wasn't ready to face. There was a weight to the silence between them, one that neither of them seemed willing to break, but it wasn't the comfortable kind of quiet. No, this felt like the air before a storm, a pause that demanded something-something more than just the rhythmic crash of the waves.

Isla's mind raced, her thoughts caught between the tension of the moment and the way the cool night wind tousled her hair, making everything seem too real, too sharp. It was like she could feel everything at once-the lingering anger, the desire to be anywhere but here, but also the undeniable pull toward him, toward this. The history. The weight of it all.

She didn't look at him, but she could feel his presence beside her like a steady beat. Rafe. Always so present, so hard to escape. There was no running from the way he made her feel, not in this place, not in the silence where all the old memories bubbled up, threatening to spill over. Her fingers twitched, wanting to reach for something-anything-but there was nothing here to hold on to.

"You know," Rafe said, his voice breaking through the quiet, "you don't have to pretend like this isn't bothering you." His words were soft, but the edge was there, the same sharpness she'd known for years, the same way he'd always been able to cut through her defenses.

Isla stiffened, trying to bury the flutter of something she couldn't name. She was good at pretending. She was great at pretending, actually. But something in the air shifted, and for once, she didn't have the energy to mask it.

"I'm not pretending." Her voice came out a little too cold, a little too tight, but the words still managed to sting, even if they were true. Her gaze stayed ahead, fixed on the moonlit road stretching before them, the way the sand and sea seemed to blur together in a single stretch of darkness.

Rafe let out a low laugh, one that rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that felt too familiar, too comfortable. "Right," he said, his tone laced with that ever-present smirk. "But you are, Isla. And you don't even know it."

She shot him a glance then, quick and sharp, just a flicker of her eyes that tried to catch his. He didn't flinch. If anything, he only seemed more amused, like he'd just caught her in some kind of trap she didn't even realize she'd stepped into.

"Why do you always do that?" she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it. Her voice was quieter now, more vulnerable than she would have liked, but there it was. She couldn't help it. Why did he always seem to get under her skin like this?

"Do what?" Rafe replied, his voice still a little too soft, a little too knowing. He knew. He always knew.

"Play these games," she muttered, her fingers curling into her palms. "Why can't you just let me be?"

There was a long pause, the kind that stretched out like a thread between them, unraveling at the edges, taut with something unspoken. Finally, he exhaled a breath, like he was weighing his words, like he wasn't sure whether to say them at all.

"Because you don't want me to," he said simply. The words weren't an accusation, but something else-an understanding that made her heart trip in her chest, a tightening she couldn't explain. "You may pretend like you do, but you don't. If you did, you'd leave. You'd go back to wherever you came from and never look back."

Isla's breath caught in her throat. She wanted to snap at him, wanted to deny it, but she knew it was true. She'd tried to leave. Tried to walk away from everything she knew-this place, this town, and him. But the truth was, she couldn't. And somehow, that terrified her more than anything else.

She bit down on her lip, willing herself to say something-anything-but the words wouldn't come. Instead, she found herself staring out at the water, the dark sea stretching endlessly before her, just like the uncertainty that seemed to always trail her, always haunt her.

"I didn't come back for you, Rafe," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, but firm enough to make him hear the truth in it.

Rafe didn't respond right away. Instead, he glanced at her, the way his eyes flicked over her like he was trying to figure something out. There was a slight shift in his posture, the tiniest change in the way he stood, like he'd let something drop, some part of his guard slipping, just for a moment.

"I never said you did," he said softly, and it surprised her how calm his words were. How steady. But there was something in the way his voice lingered in the air, a weight she hadn't expected. "But that doesn't mean you're not still here."

Isla opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat. She had no answer to that. She wasn't here for him. She told herself that every single day. But the thing was-she didn't know why she was still here. She didn't know what was pulling her back. Maybe it was the memories, the unfinished things that were never really dealt with. Or maybe it was just the strange feeling that she was never really gone.

Rafe, sensing her hesitation, took a slow step toward her, the space between them narrowing until the air was thick with something she didn't want to feel. Something she couldn't name, but that she could sense, deep down in her chest.

"You're not the only one who feels like a stranger here," he said, his voice softer now, a shift from the teasing tone he'd worn before. "Everyone thinks they know you, but they don't. Not really. They don't know the things you're running from."

Isla couldn't meet his eyes, not then, not when he was so close, not when his words held so much more truth than she was willing to admit. Instead, she focused on the beach, on the way the dark sand clung to her shoes, the way the night seemed to swallow them whole.

"I'm not running from anything," she said, but even she didn't believe it. She could feel the lie settle in the pit of her stomach, cold and uncomfortable.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, like he wasn't buying it, but he didn't press. Instead, he stepped back, breaking the tension just enough for her to exhale.

Isla watched him as he turned to look out at the water, his back to her, shoulders slightly hunched, like the weight of the world was always just a little too heavy on him. There was something in the way he stood, something that made her feel less alone in this strange, in-between place. It was a fleeting feeling, gone before she could hold on to it.

Each step seemed to drag them deeper into the tension that had wrapped around them since the moment they'd left the house. There was no way around it anymore. The air between them had thickened into something heavy, a presence that neither of them could ignore.

And then they saw them.

The group of Pogues was gathered around a bonfire, laughter ringing out into the night air, the flames flickering in their eyes as they shared stories, jokes, and the kind of carefree energy that seemed foreign to Isla now. There was something so easy about them, like they had no cares in the world. Something so familiar, too.

But that was when Isla's gaze landed on him-Oliver. Her stomach twisted. He was sitting close to Kiara, his leg brushing against hers in a way that made her breath catch. The movement was natural, unhurried, and almost casual. But Isla knew better than to mistake it for anything less than what it was: intimacy. The kind that spoke of shared history, of late-night conversations, of moments that had been lived and felt between them.

Oliver's head was tilted toward Kiara, his eyes bright as he laughed at something she said, his fingers absentmindedly twirling the end of a lock of her hair. Kiara leaned in closer to him, her shoulder brushing against his, a smile playing at the corners of her lips that Isla knew too well. It was the kind of smile that only came out when she was with someone she trusted, someone she was comfortable with. There was no hesitation, no distance. Just... closeness.

A feeling crawled up Isla's spine, tightening around her chest like a vice. It was a mixture of jealousy, bitterness, and regret. She couldn't look away. And in that moment, Isla was reminded of how small she felt. Like a shadow in a room that everyone else had forgotten to light.

Her throat tightened, the words she wanted to say lodged somewhere between her chest and her mouth. She didn't know what was worse-seeing them together or not being able to make it stop, to pull herself out of this feeling that seemed to settle deeper inside her the longer she looked at them.

Rafe, of course, noticed.

His eyes flicked toward Isla, studying her reaction with a look that was half-amused, half-knowing. He didn't say anything at first, but the silence between them became unbearable, thick with unspoken words. Finally, he broke it, his voice too casual, too sharp in contrast to the undercurrent of tension that had suddenly filled the air.

"Looks like your old friend's moved on," Rafe remarked, his eyes flicking from Isla to the scene by the fire. "That's gotta sting."

Isla froze. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her, could sense the way he was watching for her reaction.

Her jaw clenched, the muscles in her face tightening as she fought to keep the bitterness from spilling out. She hated this. Hated the way he could read her so easily, as if all her walls meant nothing. As if she were just an open book, waiting for him to skim through her pages.

"Shut up, Rafe," she muttered, her voice rougher than she meant it to be. She could feel her chest rise and fall in quick succession, her heartbeat thumping in her ears, as if it wanted to escape her body altogether.

Rafe didn't respond immediately, just raised an eyebrow at her, the corner of his lips pulling into that same familiar smirk. He always found a way to get under her skin, always found a way to dig at the parts of her that she preferred to keep buried.

"You know," he said, his voice softer now, almost teasing, "You're not fooling anyone with that 'I don't care' act." His eyes flicked back to Oliver and Kiara, his gaze narrowing just slightly, the amusement still dancing in his expression. "You're pissed, Isla. And don't think I can't see it."

Her skin prickled. She hated how easily he could see through her. She hated the way he made it feel like she was the one exposing herself, like she was the one standing naked in front of him, even though she had tried so damn hard to keep her thoughts locked up tight.

Isla turned her face away, eyes focused on the distant fire, where the warm glow flickered against the dark sky. Her heart ached with something that felt too much like loss, too much like regret. Why was she even here? Why had she come back?

She didn't want to admit it, but she knew.

She was here because she had never really left. Not in the ways that mattered. Not in the places that left scars.

A deep breath shook her shoulders, her chest rising and falling with the effort to steady herself. "Maybe I don't want to be fooling anyone," she muttered, her voice quieter now, like she was speaking more to herself than to him. "Maybe I just don't want to care anymore."

Rafe didn't respond. The silence stretched between them again, but this time it was heavier. He hadn't pushed her further, hadn't called her out on her half-truths. He just let the moment linger, let her feel the weight of it. And Isla couldn't help but wonder if that was his way of showing that he understood-understood more than she wanted to admit.

She could still feel the tightness in her chest, the ache that hadn't quite gone away. And when she glanced back at Oliver and Kiara, their easy smiles, their shared laughter, it only intensified the feeling.

It was stupid, she told herself. So stupid. But it still hurt. And the worst part? It was the kind of hurt she couldn't even name. The kind that lingered in the spaces between them, in the places they had never fixed. And that, in itself, was more painful than any of the moments they had shared.

"Let's go," Isla said finally, her voice small. She didn't look at Rafe, didn't want to see the knowing look in his eyes. "I don't want to stay here."

He didn't argue. He didn't ask her why. He just turned, his steps silent in the sand, and Isla followed him, leaving the bonfire, leaving Oliver and Kiara behind, knowing full well that she was walking away from something she would never be able to shake off.

But she didn't look back. Not this time.

author's note !!
you know what ? I WANT THEM BOTH.
i really like this chapter and rafe is so 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰
let me know what you think !!!!!! i would be very happy to read your comments 🩷
leave a comment and a star to support !!!!
thank you for the attention 🩷