The following morning hit wrong. Not like sunrise, not like light. More like a hand pressing over my face, shoving me awake when I wasn't ready. The air was thick, too heavy for my lungs. I lay there a while, staring at the ceiling fan that never spun fast enough, shadows from the blades crawling along the walls. I tried to breathe steady. Tried to convince myself I'd slept. But I hadn't, not really.
Her laugh. That's what I'd heard last. Before I drifted into something like unconsciousness. Her laugh from the balcony, sharp, quick, sliding into my room like smoke under a door. Not aimed at me. Aimed somewhere else. At someone else.
Now it echoed. Not in the air, in my head.
I rolled over, shoved the pillow down hard, as if it could stop my memory from loading. It didn't. The smell of the room, salt mixed with cleaning product, even that reminded me. Because she smelled like the ocean, like something warm and sunlit, and I hated that my brain wouldn't let me think of anything else.
Breakfast was a disaster before it started. I knew it the second I walked into the dining hall. Too many people. Too much glass, polished wood, the sound of forks clinking like insects in my ears. I wanted to walk back out. But I was already there, already trapped by the sight of her.
Charlotte.
Hair pulled up high, messy strands falling loose at her temples. A dress the color of the sea just before storm. She was laughing. Of course, she was. At something one of the guys at her table had said. I didn't even know his name. Didn't need to. Didn't want to. The way her hand brushed his sleeve was enough.
I sat three tables over, back straight, eyes on my plate. The eggs were wet. Greasy. I just pushed them around, pretending they were worth looking at. Every cell in me knew where she was in the room. The distance, the angle, the way she tilted her head when she sipped her coffee.
She looked at me once. Just once. Barely a second, maybe half. But I caught it. My pulse stuttered. Then she was back with them, laughing again, and I just wanted to smash my fork through the plate.
Instead, I ate nothing. I sat there until my skin itched from the noise. Got up, and left. Pretended like I didn't care if anyone saw me go.
The beach didn't help. Sand clung harder today, damp, gritty, refusing to let go of my skin. I walked fast, past the cabanas, past the umbrellas with their fake shade, past kids shrieking in saltwater. My ears caught her again. Behind me. Charlotte's voice. Not the words, only the cadence. The way her laugh rose above everyone else's, like she was the only one the ocean listened to.
I didn't turn around. I told myself not to. My spine was a steel rod, keeping me pointed forward, but my brain twisted backward anyway, painting images I didn't want—her lying back on a towel, sunglasses low, then her smile tilted toward someone else.
I walked faster. Feet burning against the sand, sneakers filling with grit. I didn't stop until the crowd thinned out, until the sound of waves swallowed the sound of her.
I sat down, knees up, my arms braced across them, and stared at the horizon until it blurred.
The thing about the ocean is, it just keeps moving. Doesn't care who's watching. Doesn't care what it leaves behind.
Afternoon. The room again. I opened the laptop, thinking I'd work. Couldn't. The cursor just blinked at me like it knew better.
I slid the balcony door open. The divider loomed. Thin wood, not nearly enough. I could hear her out there. A chair scraping. Ice clinking in a glass. A sigh.
I froze. Couldn't bring myself to step fully out. Just stood with one hand on the frame, watching her shadow stretch across the divider.
I thought about saying something. Anything. "Hi. Nice weather. Do you ever shut up?" Didn't matter what. But my throat locked. My jaw clenched. I slid the door shut again and went back inside.
The silence in the room wasn't silence at all. It was pressure. Weight. A hand on the back of my neck, pushing me down.
Evening came faster than I expected. Someone, I think one of the staff, had invited me to join a trivia night at the bar. I almost said no. Almost. But then I thought maybe she wouldn't be there. Maybe I'd get to breathe for an hour.
Wrong.
She walked in ten minutes after me. Tight jeans, loose top, hair down now, curls wild against her shoulders. She saw me. I know she did. Because her eyes flickered, fast, like she was bracing for impact. But then she smiled at someone else, and I was just furniture again.
We ended up on opposite teams. Questions about pop culture, sports, history. I didn't answer a single one. My brain couldn't hold facts. Only images. The way she leaned into her teammates, whispering in their ears. The way she tilted her drink, her lips glossed, catching the light.
Her laugh. Always that laugh.
By the end of it, her team won. She cheered, threw her arms up, then clapped someone on the shoulder like they were best friends. My jaw ached from clenching.
I left before she could look at me again. Or maybe she never would have.
Back in the room, night pressing hard through the glass. I sat on the edge of the bed, laptop closed, lights off. The divider hummed with silence. No sounds from her side. No laugh. No sigh. Nothing.
And that was worse. Because silence had weight. It seeped into me, filling my veins, and making my skin crawl.
I lay back, my eyes on the ceiling, fan blades cutting shadows across the room. I thought about opening the door again. Just to stand there and see if she'd turn, if she'd say anything. But I didn't. I stayed where I was, staring at nothing, feeling her there even though I couldn't hear her anymore.
The night dragged. Hours stretched, folded, but refused to end. My body restless, rolling from side to side, sheets twisted tight around me. My brain stuck on repeat: her eyes, her laugh, her lips, the way she'd looked at me that night when everything had burned so hot it almost broke me.
Now it was cold. Icy. Distance stretched wider than the divider.
I hated her. I wanted her. Both truths sat in me, sharp edges cutting against each other, drawing blood I couldn't stop.
And still, I didn't move.
Silence. Heavy. Endless.
That's how it ended. That's how the day died. Not with a fight. Not with a word. Not even with a look. Just distance. The kind that kills louder than any sound.