Later that night, the wind picked up. The sky was clear, stars sharp and visible above the black line of the ocean. I sat out on the porch, a blanket draped around my shoulders, legs pulled up to my chest.
I didn't hear him walk up.
But suddenly, he was there.
Alan.
No sound. No warning. Just… present.
"Do you float, or are you just naturally this quiet?" I asked, not looking at him.
"I'm light on my feet."
"That's one way to put it."
He stepped up beside me and sat down slowly. We didn't say anything for a while. The wind made the chimes on the porch rattle softly.
"You're quiet tonight," he said.
"Says the professional silent type."
He didn't laugh, but I felt the breath shift in him.
"I was just thinking," I said.
"About?"
I hesitated. Then shrugged. "Stuff."
He didn't push.
I liked that about him. Sometimes I hated it.
We sat like that for a while. Just listening. The ocean. The wind. The occasional creak of the wood under us.
Then he said, "You ever feel like you're in the wrong place?"
I turned to look at him.
"What do you mean?"
He was still staring straight ahead. "Like… you're somewhere you're not supposed to be. Or maybe… supposed to be, but not anymore."
My mouth was dry suddenly.
"That's… oddly specific."
"Just a thought," he said.
I shifted in my seat. "I think everyone feels that way sometimes."
He nodded slowly. "Maybe."
I watched him. His profile in the moonlight. Calm. Still. But his expression was… distant. Like the words had come from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach.
"Alan," I said quietly. "You never told me how long you've lived here."
He looked at me. "I did."
"You said 'a while.' That's not an answer."
He smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it. "What would you do if I told you the truth?"
I stared at him. "Why wouldn't you?"
He didn't respond. Just held my gaze for a second too long. Then he looked away.
"It's getting cold," he said, standing.
"You're not going to answer?"
He hesitated. "Some things don't sound right when you say them out loud."
And then, like always, he was gone. Not suddenly — but in that way that made me wonder if he'd been there at all.
I stayed on the porch a while longer, staring out into the dark, trying to remember what he did say. What he didn't.
The wind shifted again. I pulled the blanket tighter.
I didn't know what I was waiting for.
But I felt closer to it than before.
The next few days blurred together.
We didn't have a routine, but we kept finding each other. He'd show up at the cottage, or I'd find him on the bluff, or we'd both somehow end up at the same spot along the water without ever planning it.
We watched the tide roll in and out.
Skipped more stones. I got slightly better. He pretended I didn't.
We sat beneath a crooked tree and made up fake stories about the people who walked past in the distance — tourists, locals, strangers who didn't know what they were interrupting.
One evening, we found an old book of poetry tucked in the back of the cottage's shelf. He read it out loud, exaggerating every word until I laughed so hard I had to leave the room.
It was simple. Easy.
We didn't talk about what it meant.
We didn't have to.
Spending time with him just… made sense.
But then, one afternoon, I waited on the porch longer than usual.
No sound.
No footsteps.
No Alan.
I walked the path behind the houses. I circled the bluff. The driftwood. The rocky side of the beach where we'd sat two days ago. Nothing.
That night, I barely slept.
The next morning — still nothing.
I wasn't panicking. That would've meant admitting something was wrong. And I wasn't ready to do that.
Not because I thought something had happened.
But because it felt like he had simply stopped being there. Like he'd never really been.
I told myself he was busy. Or needed space. Or had something to take care of.
I didn't believe it.
But I told myself anyway.
By evening, the light felt different.
I sat on the porch with a blanket wrapped around my legs, mug of tea in hand, just staring at the horizon. My chest felt tight, but not in a sharp way. Just that dull kind of ache that stays quiet.
I hadn't realized how much space he took up until it was empty.