Summer's POV
The moment her shoes sank into the sand, Summer stopped walking.
For a heartbeat, it was as if the past had caught up with her in a single gust of wind—the scent of sea salt, the screech of gulls, the rustle of palm leaves that had once kept her awake at night.
Ten years.
And the island hadn't changed.
The same crooked dock stretched into turquoise water.
The same palm tree leaned sideways like a tired friend.
Even the air felt familiar, like a page that had been bookmarked and finally reopened.
She looked down at her hand.
Sand clung to her skin, bright under the sunlight.
Ethan stood beside her, his camera slung over one shoulder.
"Déjà vu?" he asked gently.
She smiled faintly. "More like an echo."
They both stood there for a long moment, letting the quiet do the talking.
No producers yelling. No countdowns. Just the rhythm of the tide.
"This is where we first fought," she said softly.
He chuckled. "Which time?"
"The big one," she clarified, smiling now. "About the map. You swore I'd hidden it."
"You did hide it," he teased.
"I was saving it," she corrected. "You were panicking."
He laughed. "You still sound exactly like you did back then."
"And you still think you're right."
They grinned at each other—older, lighter, kinder versions of the people who once stood here.
---
Ethan's POV
He lifted the camera—not to film her, but to test the light. The frame filled with Summer standing against the horizon, hair blowing, the ocean glimmering behind her.
For a split second, the years folded away.
She looked almost the same as she had that first week on the island—except now, there was peace in her eyes.
He lowered the camera. "It's strange," he said. "This place feels smaller."
"Maybe we just grew," she replied.
He smiled. "That's a better answer."
They began to walk, following the same narrow path that once led to their old campsite.
Every few meters, memory tugged—here they had built their first shelter, there they had burned dinner, there they'd argued about how to boil water.
Summer paused near a clearing. "The tree's still here."
Ethan looked up. The same broad trunk where they'd carved a makeshift calendar out of impatience and boredom. The faint markings were still visible, softened by rain and time.
He touched the bark gently. "We left proof we were real."
She smiled. "We didn't need to. We carried it."
---
Summer's POV
They reached the shore where the final challenge of the show had once taken place—a wide stretch of beach framed by jagged rocks.
Now, it was quiet. The set pieces were gone, the stage dismantled, the chaos washed clean.
Only nature remained, stubbornly unbothered.
Summer set her camera bag down. "I don't want to reenact anything," she said.
"Me neither," Ethan agreed. "Let's just document what's here now."
They unpacked microphones, tripods, lenses. But instead of directing, they simply observed.
A fisherman passing by.
Children chasing crabs.
An old woman drying seaweed in the sun.
It wasn't a show—it was a witness.
At one point, Summer crouched to capture a wave rolling back from the sand, and Ethan quietly filmed her from behind, the camera humming softly.
He wasn't trying to make her look heroic or cinematic—just human.
When she stood and caught him filming, she smiled. "Old habits die hard?"
He shrugged. "Some are worth keeping."
She looked at him for a long moment. "This feels different, doesn't it?"
"It feels right," he said simply.
---
Ethan's POV
By late afternoon, the light turned golden—the same golden they'd once fought under, cried under, survived under.
They sat on a rock overlooking the sea. Cameras off. No scripts.
Just the quiet hum of the island, patient and familiar.
"Do you think people will care about this?" she asked suddenly.
"About what?"
"That it's not dramatic. That it's just… two people coming back."
He thought for a moment. "Maybe not everyone. But the right ones will."
She smiled. "You always say that."
"Because it keeps being true."
He picked up a handful of sand, letting it spill through his fingers.
"Ten years ago, we came here pretending to be strong," he said. "Now we're here, just being."
Summer leaned against him, quiet. "That's the difference between surviving and living."
He nodded. "And maybe that's the story we were supposed to finish."
---
Summer's POV
The sun began to set—slow, deliberate, unhurried.
They filmed it, of course. Not for the network, not for an audience, but for themselves.
A visual reminder: closure doesn't always need words.
As the last light faded, Ethan turned off the camera.
"Same sunset," he said softly.
Summer smiled. "No. Same sky, different people."
He looked at her for a long time before saying, "Yeah. Different people."
They sat there until the stars began to appear—
and for the first time since that old season ended,
the island finally felt like home,
not because it held their past,
but because it forgave it.