Vanessa
We walked away from the group without saying a word, as if silence were the only agreement we needed. The beach breeze wrapped around us, and each step on the sand seemed to mark the rhythm of something still unsaid. Maeson walked beside me, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the horizon, as if he were searching the sea for the words he couldn't find within himself.
We stopped near some rocks, where the sound of the waves muffled any noise from the world. He sat down first, with that calm that sometimes feels distant, but now felt closer than ever. I settled next to him, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth that radiated from his presence.
"Was it true?" he said, still not looking at me. "The party. What you confessed."
His voice was low but firm. There was no judgment, only curiosity. It surprised me that this was the first topic, but I also expected it. I stayed silent for a few seconds, searching for an answer that wasn't entirely a lie, but wouldn't expose me completely either.
"Sometimes I say things and I don't know if they're true or just part of what I want people to know," I replied, playing with the sand between my fingers. I tried to tell him the truth in the most distant and indirect way possible. I didn't want my past to chase me any further, and even less for him to get tangled in what knowing the truth could bring into his life.
Maeson laughed, but it was a soft laugh, as if he understood more than he let on. He finally looked at me, and in his eyes there was something I didn't fully recognize—a mix of curiosity, care, and something deeper that invited me to stay.
"You know," he said, with that deep voice that always seemed to hold a secret between the lines, "when I was a kid, I used to pretend I was part of a mafia in Italy. Blame it on watching The Godfather too much without proper supervision. I took the role very seriously—I even had a hat I wore only for 'business.'" He told me this, sharing—as always—those details he didn't seem to share with anyone else.
"But the truth is, I grew up in Toowoomba, in a loving family, with the same circle of friends and people around me all the time, and I was never even close to getting a police warning." At that moment, his gaze was deep. He looked at me as if trying to figure out whether what he was about to say was the right thing.
"When you told everyone at the party about organized crime, I don't know, for a moment I felt like you meant it." He leaves the sentence hanging there, like a small doubt floating in the air, without really saying the words. I know he doesn't think it was just a spur-of-the-moment joke, but he doesn't want to pressure me either. He gives me space, as if he knows that some truths are only spoken when the heart is ready. And honestly, I don't think I'll ever be ready to share my whole truth.
I look out at the horizon, let the sound of the water wrap around me for a few minutes, while I find a way to tell him one of my half-truths, without deeply hurting the trust we're building.
"It's true I didn't grow up in a totally conventional family," I finally manage to say. "But it's not really mine to share some of the things that happened around me while I was growing up." He watches me silently, as if waiting and giving silent permission for me to share whatever I'm willing to.
"My parents died when I was two, in an accident," I blurt out without thinking much. The truth is, I never really felt pain over losing them, but I did feel pain over how it happened and everything that came after.
"I don't remember much about them, just the stories my grandmother used to tell me—about their love and how much they loved me while we were together. From age two to thirteen, I was under my grandmother's care. But when she died, a paternal uncle took over." I fall silent, because I really don't know which parts of my story from that moment on I want to share, what small fragment of my memory might give him clues to the truth, and at what point all of this becomes a mistake.
Maeson seems to notice my confusion. His eyes read me like they can decipher my silences. Then, with that gift he has for finding cracks where light can enter, he gently steers the conversation toward a place that feels safe for both of us.
"Did your grandmother tell you stories?" he asks, in a low voice, as if he knows that's a place that doesn't hurt as much.
I nod, grateful for the shift.
"Yes. All the time. She had a prodigious memory and a way of telling stories that made anything seem magical. She talked about my parents like they were characters in a novel—brave, in love, imperfect, but deeply human."
Maeson shifts a little closer, not touching me, but creating that space where words feel safe.
"And did you believe those stories?"
"When I was a child, yes. They were my refuge. I liked imagining that the love she described still lived somewhere in the world, even if I couldn't see it. Sometimes I think she told me those stories so I wouldn't feel like something... or someone... was missing."
I stare out at the sea, as if the waves could return one of those memories. "From two to thirteen, she was everything. My home, my voice, my shield. When she died, it was like the world suddenly went dark. And what came after... well, not all stories have happy endings."
Maeson doesn't respond right away. He just lets the silence wrap around us, as if he understands that some things don't need answers—just company. Then, with that calm that defines him, he says:
"Your grandmother sounds like someone who knew how to hold the world together with words. I'm glad you had her. And I'm glad you're telling me this."
His words aren't grand, but in their simplicity, there's something that eases me. As if, for a moment, the weight of everything I didn't say became lighter. I stay quiet for a moment, and decide to talk about something I promised nights ago.
"You know why I laughed that night?" I say, still not looking at him. "It wasn't because of what Wenn said. Or the joke. It was because I was nervous. Really nervous."
Maeson turns his face slightly toward me, attentive, without interrupting.
"It's been like that since I was little," I continue. "When I'm uncomfortable, when I feel like something's slipping away, I laugh. It's like my body needs to make noise so it doesn't break inside. And that night... well, there were a lot of things I didn't know how to handle."
I dare to look at him, hoping he won't laugh, hoping he won't take it as an excuse. But in his eyes, there's no mockery—just that calm that seems to wrap around everything.
"I didn't know that," he says softly. "But it makes sense. Your laugh... it's not just noise. It's like a way of protecting yourself."
I nod, surprised by how accurate his words are. "Sometimes I wish I could change it. Be more serious. More... contained. But it's what I've got. It's how I survive."
Maeson smiles—that kind of smile that doesn't try to impress, just to be there. "I like your laugh. Even if it comes with nerves. Even if it hides things. I like it because it's yours."
And here it is—my all-or-nothing moment. My small act of courage that will decide whether I run off again with one shoe, or if all the signals I've picked up from Maeson were exactly what I thought.
I take a deep breath and say, "The truth is, that day, what Wenn said—even though I laughed—I didn't think it was crazy. Actually, I don't think it's a bad idea at all." I let it all out in a single breath, almost without breathing, purely on impulse, and I wait for his response, even though every part of me is screaming to run.
Maeson doesn't answer right away. He looks at me, and in that instant, the silence becomes more eloquent than any word. His eyes don't leave mine, as if he's searching for something behind what I just said.
"I also thought it wouldn't be such a bad idea," he confesses, lowering his gaze for a moment, his voice quiet, almost as if he doesn't want to break the moment.
He moves a little closer—not abruptly, but as if the space between us no longer matters. "And now," he says, with that calm that disarms me, "do you also want to run away?"
I think about it for a second. "No. This time I want to stay."
We stay there, in that pause that says everything. He moves a little closer, and I don't move. No jokes, no masks. Just us, and the sound of the sea in the background. His hand brushes mine, and when our faces are just inches apart, when the world seems to hold its breath...
My phone rings.
A sharp, untimely, almost cruel ringtone. Maeson stops, his eyes still locked on mine, and I pull back slightly, as if the spell has broken. I look at the screen. It's Melissa.
"It's my friend," I say, my voice trembling, as if I need to justify the interruption to the universe.
Maeson nods, with a soft, resigned smile. "Of course. Take it. I'll be here."
I stand up slowly, as if my body doesn't want to move. I walk a few steps away, the phone still vibrating in my hand, and as I answer, I glance back. Maeson is still there, sitting, eyes on the sea... or maybe on me.
And even though the moment is gone, something remains. Something that doesn't disappear with a phone call. Something that, maybe, was waiting for just this to begin.
I answer, my heart still pounding from what just happened with Maeson, trying to make my voice sound normal.
"Melissa?"
"Vanessa... I'm in Australia."
I go silent. I don't understand. It can't be.
"What?"
"I'm about to arrive at the airport. In Melbourne. My flight lands in an hour. I didn't tell you before because... I didn't know if I'd actually do it. But I did. I'm here."
I feel the world stop for a second. I look toward Maeson, still sitting, calm, as if the sea is protecting him from any interruption. And I, meanwhile, am trying to process that my best friend crossed half the planet without warning.
"Why?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. Only one person could trigger a reaction like that in her.
"Because that bastard Nick cheated on me. Because I couldn't stay there. Because you're here. And because I needed to do something that gave me back control. So I took the first flight I could find and left. I'm at the international terminal. Can you come get me?"
I stay silent, with a thousand emotions crossing through me at the same time. The moment with Maeson, the confession, the almost-kiss... everything is suspended. But Melissa is here. And she needs me to be there for her.
"Yes. Of course. Give me a few minutes and I'll head out."
"Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you."
I hang up. I stare at the phone for a few more seconds, as if it could take me back to the previous moment. Then I walk toward Maeson, who watches me with that calm I now recognize as his way of caring without intruding.
"Everything okay?" he asks.
"My best friend is at the airport. She came from Colombia. Her boyfriend cheated on her. She left on impulse. And now she's here."
Maeson nods, unsurprised, as if he understands that life sometimes moves like this—without warning.
"Do you want me to come with you?"
I look at him and nod. "Yes, I think I could really use the help right now." The truth is, I don't have transportation, I don't know what state Melissa is in, and knowing my friend, she probably brought her entire house with her in suitcases. So yes, I definitely need the help.
We walk over to the others. Zane gives us a knowing look but doesn't say much. Konnor arrived at the beach recently and doesn't seem to know anything about what just happened. I ask the guys if they can come with me, explaining the situation briefly.
Just then, Wenn runs past us, crying loudly. Shawn follows behind her, gives us a confused look, and keeps going without saying anything else.
We all fall silent, deciding that's a situation to figure out later.
"We'll take my car," says Zane. "It has more space for everyone and your friend's luggage."
I thank him for the help, and we head to the airport. I just hope I find my friend in the most stable condition possible.