The sky bled orange and pink as the sun dipped below the horizon. Adrian stood motionless, eyes vacant, bloodied arms crossed over his chest, his foot half-buried in the sand. The wind tugged at the frayed hem of his hoodie, and in the silence between waves, his heartbeat was the only sound in his ears.
Then—
"You always were dramatic, huh?"
His body turned before his mind could catch up. He hadn't sensed anyone. No footsteps, no breathing, no psychic wavelength.
But there she was.Long blonde hair, windswept and tangled just like the night he saw her last. Green eyes that shimmered with a calm, otherworldly stillness. Her tanned skin glowed softly in the dying sunlight, and she wore a peculiar outfit—a long, dark green jacket cinched at the waist over a thin black undershirt and combat boots, worn like she'd walked through hell and barely noticed.
"...May?"
She tilted her head and smiled like she hadn't just risen from his past—or worse, from nothing.
"You remember my name. Cute."
Adrian's brow furrowed. "You're not real."
She walked closer, the sand beneath her feet barely shifting. He didn't move.
"That hurts. Our date wasn't that forgettable, was it?"
"That was one time," he said slowly, eyes narrowing. "We had coffee. You told me about your tattoo and your weird ass job. Then I almost got killed."
May sat cross-legged in the sand like they were just old friends meeting again. "I never said it was a normal job."
Adrian stared at her. He couldn't feel her. No heat, no soulprint. She picked up a small shell beside her and tossed it into the sea.
He clenched his fists. "You're not real."
She offered no argument. Just smiled.
"You're bleeding, by the way," she said, pointing at a reopened gash on his arm.
"I'm going to sleep," he muttered, brushing past her.
"Night, then," she called softly, like this was all part of a shared routine.
DAY 7
Adrian woke up to the rustle of leaves and the smell of salt. He sat up groggily, eyes scanning his rough shelter—just wooden supports, woven leaves, and a dirt floor. Empty.
He sighed in relief.
Maybe it really was just the healing messing with my brain.
Then he stepped outside.
She was there. Asleep—or pretending to be—in a hammock she'd somehow tied up between two trees just outside his base. Hair tousled, arms folded behind her head, rising and falling gently with every breath.
His stomach twisted.
"This isn't real" he whispered.
May cracked one eye open. "Well, it's comfortable. You should try it sometime."
He didn't respond.
He didn't talk to her again that day. Or the next.
DAY 10
"This tree's rotting. If you want to build anything, you're gonna need better wood."
Adrian looked up from the half-constructed wall of his lean-to. May stood behind him, twirling his tomahawk in one hand like she'd done it a thousand times.
"You know a lot about trees now?" he muttered.
"I read. Or maybe I made it up. Who's to say?"
He exhaled through his nose and turned back to the work. But for the first time in days, he didn't tell her to go away.
DAY 12
They hunted together.
She didn't make sound when she walked. Always behind him, her voice light and sarcastic, floating like an afterthought.
She spotted tracks before he did.
At one point, when he nearly stepped into a snare he'd forgotten he set, she grabbed his wrist.
She was terrifyingly useful. She gathered vines. Hauled wood. Kicked a tree once and knocked fruit loose. She'd spar with him using the second tomahawk.
DAY 14
They sat beside the fire, chewing dried fish and staring into the flames.
"You're not real," he muttered again, almost to himself.
May grinned, eyes half-lidded. "Maybe not. But I'm here."
He didn't argue. Didn't want to. Not anymore.
They didn't say much else that night. The silence felt less like dread and more like peace.