Issue 4 by Ink Magazine

Issue 4 • March 2022

Letter from the Editors We are delighted to present Ink’s fourth print issue! Included are four poems and five works of fiction, each unique in theme and form. We greatly enjoyed reading the writing in this edition and would like to thank our contributors for their inspiring work. In addition, we are grateful for our advertisers and the MAC Boosters, without which this issue would not have been possible. Finally, we would like to thank our adviser, Mr. Kandell, for his guidance and continued support of Ink. Submit to our next issue at www.inkliterarymag.org/submit

William Rumelhart and Xiaohan Li Editors-in-Chief

Mission Statement

Writers

Artists

Ink is a literary magazine dedicated to student expression. Our central mission is to create a space for emerging student writers and artists at Paly to share their work with others. We believe reading and sharing writing is an essential part of the writerly experience. As such, Ink is committed to providing an open platform for diverse voices and perspectives.

Sofia Antebi Madelyn Castro Cherianne Yoon Xiaohan Li Kevan Mok Victoria Liao Mars Bau Savannah Voth Konstantin Ivanov Lauren Wong Natalie Nguyen Ashley Qiu Mathew Signorello-Katz Renee Vetter

Printing

Advertising

Issues of Ink are printed by aPrintis in Pleasanton, CA. Funding for printing comes primarily from advertisements and grants. Copies are distributed in classrooms, in the MAC, and elsewhere.

To publish an advertisement in Ink or as part of a bundle with other Incubator publications, fill out the ad contract at inkliterarymag.org and email it to palyjournalismincubator@gmail.com.

Table of Contents POETRY • For You, My Darling • What’s Next • The Dive • The Dawn of Night

4 5 6 7

FICTION • The Oak Trees • Intervention

• There Are No Rhymes for Calliope • Dug up Dreams

• Excerpt from Quantum Engagement

10 11 13 14 17

Front Cover by Xiaohan Li The front cover depicts the solitary yet illuminating feeling of discovering a piece of writing, as if you now possess of a special secret.

For You, My Darling Sofia Antebi

oh, how i’d pluck a shooting star out of the freckled night skies, abandoned pennies on the street and the fallen eyelash from your cheek, pray upon incense at the altar and the curses from my mother: hopes of health, good, grades, but for you, my darling, “don’t mind it when they fight in the car” if only i could avert your lingering eyes, put your headphones on, drown out the noise, wrap yourself in blankets. don’t run away from this lonely dream. watch the moon’s delicate light weave through the cool night air, its clarity kissing the tips of your ears and nose. soon, my darling, i’ll dig for all the coins and cast them into your fountain, blow soft winds across your dandelion fields, leave this place and toss the sugar packets into the sea.

Sofia Antebi is a senior who likes writing poetry. Her favorite authors are Isabel Allende and Ray Bradbury.

Art by Madelyn Castro

POETRY

What’s Next Cherianne Yoon

A feeling of deja vu visits her every summer Her feet sweep against the street, a fleeting heat Slick sweat stuck on her back Wicked and fickle ticks that lick the icky sticks Squirrels and their bronze pearls She writes in her journal Trips down memory lane Snippets and skips Like bubbles in her brain Some things she can’t sustain Memory is a daisy chain Connected but will shrivel away with an inescapable passing of time She wonders when she grew up When she stopped playing with dolls and imaginary friends When she started keeping others at arm’s length When she stopped seeing the world in starlit lenses When an innocent child became a guilty liar And she asks, “What’s next?” Cherianne Yoon is a freshman who enjoys writing and reading in her free time (though she finds there to be less and less as time goes on). Some of her favorite authors include Marie Lu and Shannon Messenger.

Art by Xiaohan Li

The Dive Kevan Mok

Kevan Mok is a senior who likes dystopian fiction. His favorite author is Neil Shusterman. It was peaceful. I wiped waves after waves of troops and the caretakers were gone. And then the alerts started, Tens of alerts warning of danger and I started back home But it was too late. An undead centaur came like a bullet from a nearby bush and I ran Until a brawler showed its face. Why was he there? Wasn’t he supposed to stay at his island? Finally, the twin red-daggered assassin emerged With a sly smile And I knew it was over.

Art by Savannah Voth

The Dawn of Night Mathew Signorello-Katz Mathew Signorello-Katz is a senior who enjoys biographical poetry. His favorite authors are Erik Larson and Truman Capote. The wretched heat strikes mercilessly upon my weathered back Every day that I pray for the adjournment, Adjournment of the agonizing perils of life Life exists sans time or place, for I live only in an eternal state and being of anguish Oh how I yearn for the lustrous pearl of freedom But one must not capitulate For indolence does not motivate freedom My story must be told Tell them about my fortitude My tireless efforts to heed the being of freedom My rebellious campaigns, all in the name of the freedom My defiance of the law, for no law or regulation can justify the absence of freedom And remember me for my faith Faith that despite the atrocities against me and my life Change. Can. Be. Made. Change to our country Change to our society And Change to the world Oh how I yearn for the lustrous pearl of freedom

Art by Xiaohan Li

Ink “Celebrate” Advertising Form We want to join you us in recognizing the writers and organizations that have enriched literature in America and around the world! Consider purchasing a “Celebration” advertisement for one of our upcoming print edition. Just fill out the form on the following page and send it to us by April 1 for your ad to be included. The Ink staff publishes “Celebration” ads with signed contracts provided they are not deemed by the staff to be inappropriate for the magazine’s audience. Please note: Supporting a writer or organization through Ink’s “Celebrate” advertising is not the same as directly supporting them by purchasing or sponsoring their work. For more more details about advertising requirements, please visit inkliterarymag.org. Email us at literarymagazineink@gmail.com. Thank you for supporting Paly Media Arts.

Celebrate a poet, novelist, or literary organization: Amanda Gorman

Martin Amis

Mary Oliver

Neil Gaiman

Ocean Vuong

Ian McEwan Stephen King

Ada Limon

YOUR MESSAGE 1. _________________________________________________ Your name as you would like it to appear (for example: The Smith family)

2. _________________________________________________ Name, organization or cause you would like to support

3. _________________________________________________ Additional message or details about an image you would like to include

YOUR INFORMATION CONTACT NAME: ________________________________________________ PHONE: YOUR EMAIL SIGNATURE:

________________________________________________ ________________________________________________ ________________________________________________

Academy of American Poets PEN America

Poetry Foundation

Choose your own ______________________

PAYMENT 1/8 page $50 1/4 page $100

1/2 page $200 full page $400

PAYPAL (Donate to MAC Boosters at https://palymac.org/home/ mac-boosters/ CHECK (Make check out to “Palo Alto HS,” and put “Ink Celebration ad” in the notes section. Send the following check to: Journalism Incubator c/o Paul Kandell Palo Alto HS 50 Embarcadero Road Palo Alto, CA 94301 Paly Media Arts Boosters is a 501(c)3 non-profit organization Tax ID# 462866404

Mrs. Filppu joins Ink Magazine in celebrating

Academy of American Poets

Long live the arts!

“Imagine a world in which all children can see themselves in the pages of a book.” Sima Thomas & Debbie Henry of the Paly Library proudly join Ink Magazine in celebrating the work of We Need Diverse Books.

FICTION The Oak Trees Konstantin Ivanov

Konstantin Ivanov is a senior who likes Russian classical literature. His favorite authors are Fyodor Dostoevsky and Ivan Goncharov. A man with a shopping bag walked down a small city street. He was also here the day before, admiring the bright houses and colorful sidewalks and the bushes and trees everywhere. This city was nothing like he remembered. The homes and roads were new and dreary; the dead brown and grey of the streets he had seen as a child had become lusciously green. Yesterday, one house in particular caught his eye. It seemed it was just recently built and moved into. Walking up the driveway today, he was confident in success. Nobody was to be seen nearby. He gently knocked on the door and waited patiently, eyeing the neighboring windows. But as soon as the knob was turned, he violently kicked the door and trained his pistol on a motionless woman. The two stared at each other for a long while. After handing her a bag, the woman started collecting her valuables with the gun aimed at her head. The bag gradually filled up with shiny, heavy, and beautiful items. Once everything was collected, the man snatched the bag and shoved the shaking figure into a closet. Hoping to sneak through the neighboring homes to the parallel street, he ran out to the backyard. But there, he saw two old oak trees, whose branches he recognized immediately. They were the trees of his childhood, where he would crawl and swing. This can’t be, he repeated over and over to himself. And then, in a burning pulse, it came to him. He never looked at the name of the street. Panicking and dropping his bag, he sprinted to the intersection. Reading the signpost, his legs finally gave out. His vision blackened and he fell to the ground as distant sirens approached.

Art by Victoria Liao

Intervention Mars Bau

Mars Bau is a junior who is interested in short stories and poetry. They believe that stories can be great outlets for all levels of writing.

Mom is sitting across from me with her hands wrapped around Dad’s arm. I think I’m going crazy—the kitchen light wasn’t flickering this morning. The table is too white against the blood pooling in my clenched hands. Let’s talk, she said. Like I am an addict and this is an intervention long overdue. Let’s talk. But, what is there really to talk about? The evidence is all here. I think Mom was a detective in a past life. The table is spread with old receipts, crumpled letters, postcards with faint lipstick stains. A withered lavender sprig sprawls in the corner. There’s a t-shirt one size too small. The pictures are probably the most damning. “What is this?” Mom asks. I want to laugh. She doesn’t need me to answer that. I can practically see the red string she’s pinned to every item, connecting the dots all on her own. She’s already created a web I can’t escape. “I dunno,” I reply. Mom raises an eyebrow at me. She watches me watch the leaves fall from that dry old flower. The cross at her sternum glints in the kitchen light. “Really?” Mom asks again. She takes a picture between pinched fingers. I know that one. A road trip I didn’t tell her about. The one where Alisa sat shotgun, laughing, arm hooked too close to mine. Mom looks from it to me then back to it. She shifts just a hair closer to Dad. Her eyes demand an explanation she’s never going to get. It’s an explanation she’ll never understand. Because Mom is sitting across from me with her hands wrapped around Dad’s arm. And the crease where her skin meets his makes me want to scream.

Art by Xiaohan Li

There Are No Rhymes for Calliope Renee Vetter

Renee Vetter is a senior who likes art and theatre. They are particularly interested in playwriting and are excited to start writing. A bouquet of carnations sits on top of the trash, beginning to wilt. They were never intended to end up here, but when he had returned from her house—bouquet still in hand—there was no other place for them to go. The bin overflows with scraps of paper, each with crossed-out letters and words and frantic scribbling along the sides. The same name repeats on each one, with filler words in between. Calliope, would you like to go out with me? Dear Calliope, ever since eighth grade———— A used paper plate and fork sit next to the trash can, without enough space to be put inside. Blue icing still lingers on each, a reminder of the consolation cake Noah had brought over. Possibly the longest note in the pile reads: Roses are red, violets are blue, I like Calliope, Does she like me too? He never thought she would like him back. They were just friends, good friends, nothing more. But surely it couldn’t have been just a one-sided thing. Talking to Noah about it didn’t help either. His never-ending support could become as sickening as the gooey cherry cough syrup you take when you have a cold. “You have to take a chance,” he had said. “There’s always a possibility she likes you baaaaaaack.” The tones of his voice made it sound believable, but Noah could make you believe anything if he really tried. He lay in the dark, kept awake by the taunting carnations. With the failed poems and rejection looming in the air, he felt better knowing his friend was so supportive. Staring at the ceiling he plucked a flower from its stem, playing with it in his fingers. Maybe he could find a rhyme for Noah.

Art by Xiaohan Li

Dug Up Dreams Ashley Qiu

Art by Xiaohan Li

Stealing is more a practicality than an ethical violation, Jenny thinks, as she puffs a gust of air toward her forehead. Her fluttering bangs are dampened from sweat. God, the heat is suffocating in this car. Her eyes scan the facade of her childhood home: a white Spanish-style adobe with a shaded walkway leading up to the door, sage green paneled garage doors, bird-of-paradise flowers swooping over the bushes in the front—not much is different. The roof trimming has been painted a darker shade but otherwise, it’s the same house that Jenny grew up in. A figure exits the front door. Like a groundhog seeing its shadow, Jenny slides down in the driver’s seat. Cautiously, she peeks out. A middle-aged woman dressed in a floral minidress emerges carrying a “No Second Planet” tote bag. She gets in her dusty maroon Toyota and drives off. Jenny rises from her crouching position. She eyes the keys still jangling in the ignition and looks back at the house. Am I really doing this? She has to, Jenny tells herself. She’ll find the money and be out in no time. After one last cursory glance down the street, Jenny opens the driver’s side door. She crosses the street and reaches the sidewalk, but her feet hesitate beside the curb. A dog barks in the distance; Jenny jumps. She traverses the driveway and pushes open

the side gate, clenching her teeth as the rusty hinges creak, until she can just slip inside. She pauses, listening closely; all is silent. Sandwiched between the tan siding of the house and the wood fence, she steps forward. Finally, her hands make contact with the bay window jutting out from the wall. Squatting down, Jenny examines the underside of the window sill. As expected, it’s caked in dirt and encased in spider webs: no one has bothered to look here before. After sacrificing her $4 Goodwill T-shirt to wipe away the grime, Jenny is satisfied to discover a small metal latch along with the faint outline of a trapdoor. She pries open the thin plywood. A small, dark, ominous hole greets her—the entrance to her childhood. Jenny sharply inhales. Please let it still be there. She thrusts her hand in. Immediately, her smooth fingers grip the ziplock bags. Jenny pulls them out. She opens them and counts twelve ten-dollar bills, a couple twenties, and even one hundred-dollar bill. The corner of her mouth twitches and suddenly she’s beaming with relief. Don’t be mad, Dad. After all, you were too drunk to remember where you hid your stash anyway. And then you left.

Ashley Qiu is a senior who writes very occasionally. When inspiration does strike, she enjoys exploring her Asian American identity in her flash fiction pieces. Currently, her favorite author is Stephen King.

In a flash, she pockets the cash. This is a blessing, Jenny, she tells herself. No more quitting jobs out of restlessness. This is it. She leaves the way she came, closing the gate behind her. Thrust back into the main yard, the sidewalk slowly comes into view. She glances back at the windows of the house, which reveal unfamiliar furniture and strange paintings. Her heart is a stress ball squeezed into her throat. Jenny reminds herself to breathe. You’re going to make it. She inches out from the shade, nervously glancing around to make sure she isn’t being watched. But before she can reach the sidewalk, her gaze lands on a pop of red peeking out through the shrubbery. Jenny’s footsteps falter. Could it still be there? After all this time? She looks behind the bush. Half hidden under overgrown vines and phlox is a quaint wooden bridge of a fading vermillion hue. Jenny reaches in and strokes the smooth and cool surface. Even after all this time, the glue that her grandfather used holds the wooden structure together. This is the strongest type you can find. Jenny can hear his words just as clearly as when he said them over twenty years ago. She remembers how he had

placed his proud creation over the creek in the front yard. Except now, there is no creek. It had all dried up, leaving the bridge behind as a half-buried memory. Jenny picks up the bridge with both hands, gingerly brushing off the soil and leaves. Her grandfather—her ye ye—once came across the wood during one of his evening walks, clutching an abandoned chair thrown on the side of the road. He was resourceful that way. That summer afternoon, he worked for hours in the garage. Sweat was glistening on his tanned, creased face when Jenny joined him. Noticing the jar of paint next to them, she asked, Why are you painting it red? Well, he replied in Mandarin. The Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco is red. Jenny nodded eagerly, recalling the “Famous U.S. Landmarks” puzzle she had bought from a museum and completed by herself. He continued, When I was your age, that bridge was America in my mind. Coming to America felt like going across that bridge. It’s like my connection to home. We couldn’t afford to settle in California, but someday when you’re older, you must go and visit the bridge. Standing on the lawn of this house, Jenny can’t help but think of her grandpa and the family that raised her. In her mind, she traverses the ten feet that leads to the front door, opens it, and is greeted by the smell of freshly steamed pork buns, straight out

er self—a token of connection that represented a better place, an illusion too good to last. This home was also the place where Jenny’s dreams of studying architecture first sprouted; it was the place filled by the sounds of dishes clanking in the kitchen, the smells of breads in the oven, the warmth of layers upon of layers of winter blankets on the bed. the threeJenny hears a muffled scrape as tiered bamboo basthe doors of the Spanish-style house ket. Her sister Layla runs down the carpeted stairs, her favorite Barbie open against the welcome mat. She doll gripped tightly in her chubby freezes, mid-revelation. The bridge knuckles. Their mother is hanging in her hand feels like a brick. At the up the week’s laundry in the sum- doorway, she sees the back of a man mer sun to dry. And of course, her ye in a striped blue polo, locking the ye is alone in the garage, perfecting front door. Before he can turn around, Jenhis newest creation. It is that feeling of belonging, of feeling like a ship ny pulls the bridge to her chest, igsafely anchored to shore. Now, her noring the dirt that falls onto her Converses firmly rooted in place, shirt. Whipping around, she sprints. Jenny keeps a wary eye on the ga- The bridge is proof of her past life, rage door, fearing that it’ll rumble one that she so readily let go of. She open at any minute and ruin her used to be curious and unafraid—a young seedling nurgreat reminiscing. When her ye ye passed away, tured by her ye Jenny had watched as his remains ye’s loving hands. were scattered in a nearby lake. Now, to find it With no one left, Jenny’s mother half-buried unmoved to Connetitcut with her new der layers of husband. By then, Jenny had already dirt, Jenny is been thinking about dropping out resentful. She’s of college where she was unenthusi- angry at the new owners astically studying economics. Despite working as a cashier for ignoring and a part time nanny in a town it, she’s anonly 30 minutes away, Jenny won- gry at her ders why she never visited her child- m o t h e r hood home. The place that is full of for not her grandfather—the spring onions taking he planted in the garden, the beef i t noodle stew he cooked for dinner, the vision of him practicing tai chi on Sunday mornings. His presence was to Jenny what the Golden Gate Bridge was to his young-

with her when she moved, but most importantly, she’s angry at herself for leaving that part of her life behind. Jenny yanks open the door of her Prius and collapses into the seat. She stops—then ever so gently, places the bridge on the seat next to her like a valuable piece of art. In her jean pocket, the cash pokes out dejectedly, forgotten and void of value. With decisiveness simultaneously fueled by adrenaline and conviction, Jenny slams the door, throws the key in the ignition, presses the pedal, and she’s off. She doesn’t check if she’s going in the right direction, but it doesn’t matter. She knows where she’s heading. Still on the doorstep, the blond and bushy eyebrows of the man furrow. His gaze lands on his front yard. He shrugs and walks toward his car, oblivious to a stranger’s epiphany and her dug up dreams.

Excerpt from Quantum Entanglement Natalie Nguyen

Natalie Nguyen is a senior who is passionate about narrative writing for both the contemporary fiction and science fiction genres. She is particularly interested in character creation and development, using fiction to explore identity and relationships, and analyzing story structure. There is something comforting about the soft rumble of the car beneath him. He stares out the front window, at the freeway stretching into the horizon, the rolling green hills, splotched here and there with ashen black. How long has it been since he hasn’t had to worry about short streets, long lights, and the honking of cars? How long has it been since he’s had time to think? He clenches his teeth. The bright lights of the laptop swallow him whole as he returns to work. He sees Quinn’s eyes drift to his screen, but she makes no comment. And soon the churning in his stomach rebels against his brain. He tries to continue until he feels he might puke, and then leans back, breathing heavily, pushing the lid down until it’s barely open. He lets the headrest do the work of his neck, and briefly extends his legs, catching the world beyond the window again. The sun is just disappearing below the horizon. “I was going to warn you about carsickness,” Quinn says. “Need music to help you with that?” Before he can answer, she turns it up. Sound spills from the speakers, filling up the space between them. “Is it any better?” she asks after a minute. “Do you want it off ?” “Anything’s fine,” he manages, eyeing the laptop again, but every time he does that it nauseates him more, pressing him against the chair with unease. Finally he gives in, slipping it back into the work bag. He thinks Quinn takes that as an

opportunity to turn down the mu“Sounds busy,” she remarks. sic. He agrees heavily. “Yeah. But “So you’re here on business, I’m surviving. Overall, it’s good. right? What’s your schedule like? Very ideal.” “Better than here?” He didn’t think he’d have to explain this to her. “Here is… well, you know, it’s great.” He struggles to keep his tone even. “But New York is the finance capital of the world, Quinn.” “Yeah,” Her voice is flat.When he glances out again, the sun is gone, and the pink glow to the clouds is beginning to disappear. Past the fields twinkle the city lights in the horizon, barely blocked by the trees. Soon they’re replaced by the slanted buildings of San Francisco. It’s all in front of him like a massive, infinite painting. Senan finds himself sitting up to meet it. “Remember when we drove down to LA?” He pauses, and the words stick in the back of his throat. Yes, he remembers. How they would sit in this exact position, taking turns to drive. How they’d exchange words and point fingers at the landscapes passing them by. They can’t do that anymore. “I do,” he says carefully. She nods stiffly. Senan swallows, and she dares to add, “Man, that was Art by Xiaohan Li and Lauren Wong so fun, and it was such short notice, Seeing any of the sights?” too. And the summer afterward…” “No, no. I have a meeting to“Europe?” he offers quietly. Part morrow morning, trying to close of him wishes he’d forgotten. a deal. The next two days I’m in “Yeah!” she exclaims, signifiSan Francisco. Meetings all the cantly bubblier. “All the cities there way through.” Even reciting it feels just have so much, I don’t know, numbing. personality. You really don’t see that

around here.” She smiles as though she’s still there. “Walking, driving, taking the train, I’m surprised we didn’t stay another month.” “We ran out of money. And freshman year was starting.” She shrugs. “Well, I thought it was worth it. Even now, I wish we could go back. What I’d give to just walk around from midnight ‘til dawn, without a care. Take a cruise across the water and watch the city during the day from the docks.” He watches her, face half-lit by the passing city lights. Her simple words paint an image, vivid and vibrant, over the usual monotony of his mind’s eye. He can see her, can see himself in all the photos she took of them, grinning widely with his eyes closed and letting the sun ignite his dark skin. He can taste the garlic on his tongue, can feel the breeze in his hair. And then it all comes crashing down. He lets the image fall away, and returns to what’s here, now, the work bag inches away from his

covered toes. The impending, never-ending future. “There’s no time for that anymore.” “There’s always time,” she tells him. “There’s time now.” His hands curl into fists. He looks ahead of him, barely registering the Golden Gate Bridge as it nears them. “Well, you have it, I don’t.” Her retort is rapid; sudden. “You don’t even know what I do, how would you know that?” “I’m not trying to compare. What’s the point of all of this? I don’t have time to go on vacation,” he says, and suddenly his throat is tight and his eyes are burning and he can’t stop it from tumbling out. “I don’t have time to even go out by myself. I don’t have time for anything. I don’t even have time to think, Q, not with this job. What do you want me to say?” “Then quit!” she snaps, her knuckles white as she grasps the wheel. “What,” he cries out, “like I quit everything else? I need the money! I thought I liked it, I did, but I’m losing it. It’s just deal after deal after deal, these cutthroat people thinking I somehow know the future and waiting for me to make the wrong move. I don’t know the future, I’m just trying not to fail, trying not to flush my career down the toilet. Just week after week. Just running on a treadmill that’s too fast and never ends.” “We’re all running on that treadmill, Senan.” Senan stops. He breathes out with a shudder and brings a hand to his forehead so she can’t see the way he’s staining his face with his tears. “But I’m all alone in New York. You’re here with everyone else, doing what you love like you’ve always been.”

“Not like I’ve always been. You and your empty promises.” It punches through the charged, suffocating air between them. It’s thick. He can’t breathe. He can’t look at her. He’s waiting for his heart to stop throbbing out of control like there’s an important deal slipping from his grasp. He’s waiting for it to stop hurting; for the guilt to disappear again. He says, quietly, “I’m not coming home, Q.” She turns her head back, and he realizes that she was watching him—waiting. She is silent, lips pressed together before she speaks again. “Yeah,” her voice trembles, “not even if you wanted to, because it’s gone, Senan.” Now it’s a strangled cry, nearly a scream:“It’s gone, and you would’ve known that if you’d bothered to visit!” He watches her foot on the pedal, her shaking hands. “What?” “The fires. In the ‘wine country.’ You never made the connection?” All of the breath gets sucked out of him at once. “Q—”

“Just—just shut up,” she says hollowly. “I’m going to get in an accident.” And she drives, and he wishes he could say something but doesn’t know how. He looks out, realizing where he is: the bridge. In the dark, it doesn’t look like it does during the day. No visible streets, no visible people, none of the day’s pressures; just thousands upon thousands of blinking lights creating the illusion of a landscape. He stretches out his neck—looking past her profile which he used to trace over and over—to the vast blackness beyond her side of the bridge. There are no lights. It might as well not exist. But he has to trust that there’s some endless ocean right there that he can’t see. He has to trust that it’s beautiful, as beautiful as the lights on the other side dribbling across the water, creating their rainbow streaks. He has to trust that it looks like it did in Monaco, that water is the same everywhere. The ocean he can’t see is more real than his thoughts. More real than his feelings. He lives his life in a future that exists only in his mind and not right in front of him. He slaves away for that future. But he’s forgotten about the past, the present, both with her in it. They’re off the bridge, and she’s driving more smoothly. He can’t hear her harsh breathing anymore, or his own. He feels lighter. He feels the dried tears on his cheeks and doesn’t think he can cry anymore, or scream. He’s already shattered; there’s nothing left to break. “It’s been so long since I’ve been back,” he starts carefully when they reach the glowing orange tunnels. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it was. I missed it before.” He fears her response.

“It is.” She works out the words slowly. There’s a tiredness to her voice that wasn’t there before, but it’s become surprisingly warm. Familiar. Matching the one in his memory. “I bet New York’s a little like it if you open your eyes.” He’s so entranced by her, her voice, the memories she brings back, the visible lights getting smaller as new ones come into view. But it’s almost pitch black as the car rolls to a stop before a building he recognizes from his phone screen. “We’re here,” announces Q. He’s shaken. He sits in the car, not wanting to get out. “Thanks for driving me all this way,” he says at last, forcing the door open, forcing himself to stand up. She hands him his luggage when he steps out to meet her. “No problem at all! Good luck tomorrow.” He’d forgotten that there was a tomorrow. “Thanks.” “It was good seeing you,” she says. He nods at her, not knowing how to respond. She walks him all the way to the hotel lobby, to its soft, welcoming lights and homely front porch. He doesn’t enter. She doesn’t hug him goodbye. He looks out across the empty field before him, wide and vast and fit for weddings. He looks out beyond it, beyond the trees, to the endless blackness and the blinking stars above, and wonders if that’s the ocean. He looks back to see that she’s smiling at him in the dark. He smiles back. Then she turns around, and steps away, back to her car, the one he doesn’t know if he’ll ever see again. “Q,” he calls. She pauses, then turns around. From the entrance on top of the porch he can almost see the blue of her eyes. “Yeah?” Her tone is uncertain.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t come back.” They stand across from each other in the cold, still air, several feet away. Soon they’ll be a world apart. She’ll be here, she’ll be home. He’ll be on the other side of the country, alone in his apartment, up past midnight. But for now they’re here, and his heart fills when he looks at her, and he wishes he could kiss her again. But she has to go. And he has to go, has to return to those reports and everything that comes afterward. He watches her get into the car and turn on the engine. He watches the car until he can’t see it anymore. He turns around, suitcase in hand. He stands in front of the hotel door, but he doesn’t see it. He’s in his mind, he’s making himself time, and he’s giving himself forever. All he can see is her, laughing, on the coast by the ocean, beneath the blue sky.