Summer's POV
The last morning came quietly.
No film crew. No microphones. Just the soft rhythm of waves brushing the shore, and the distant sound of someone's laughter fading through the palms.
Summer woke early, before the others, and slipped outside. The air was still cool, heavy with salt and dew. The horizon glowed pale pink.
They were flying back tomorrow.
Part of her already missed the slowness of this place—the way time moved sideways instead of forward.
She walked along the beach barefoot, letting her footprints melt into the sand as quickly as they appeared.
At the far end of the cove, half-hidden by rocks, she spotted a small wooden box—weathered, edges softened by years of tide and sun.
She hesitated. It looked… familiar.
Kneeling, she brushed away the sand. The lid creaked open, releasing a faint smell of salt and paper. Inside were two envelopes—one with her name, one with Ethan's.
Her breath caught.
For a moment, she couldn't move.
---
Ethan's POV
He found her sitting on the rocks, the box in her lap, staring at something with that look she got when reality folded into memory.
"What did you find?" he asked, voice careful.
She looked up at him slowly. "Us," she said softly.
He frowned, stepping closer. Then he saw the envelopes.
His name. Her handwriting.
He blinked, confused. "Wait—what is this?"
"I think we wrote them," she said. "Back then. Remember? The producers made us do that 'message in a bottle' challenge on the last day. I thought they collected them all."
He crouched beside her, opening the box further. The paper was yellowed, slightly damp but still intact.
Summer handed him his. "Guess the sea kept them."
He stared at the envelope, tracing the faint smudge of sand along the edge.
"Do we open them?"
She smiled faintly. "After all this time? We kind of have to."
---
Summer's POV
Her hands trembled as she unfolded the letter.
The ink had bled slightly, but the words were still legible—
her younger self's handwriting, rushed and uneven.
> Dear whoever I am when this is over,
If you're reading this, I hope you stopped pretending to be okay all the time.
I hope you found someone who talks softer than the wind and listens louder than the waves.
If you didn't, that's okay. You still survived.
She paused, tears stinging but gentle.
> I hope the cameras don't scare you anymore.
And I hope you still believe in the ocean—that it forgives.
She exhaled shakily. "I forgot I ever wrote that."
Ethan smiled softly. "She knew you'd need to hear it."
She folded the paper again, holding it close like something fragile and newly alive.
---
Ethan's POV
He opened his.
The handwriting was blunt, cramped, like a man too proud to admit he had anything real to say.
> To the guy who keeps talking like that'll fix things—
Stop trying to sound strong. Just be kind.
You think the camera's your shield, but it's not. Someday it'll turn into a mirror. When it does, don't flinch.
He smiled despite himself. "I was a real philosopher, huh?"
Summer leaned closer. "You were scared."
He nodded. "I still am. Just quieter about it."
He kept reading.
> If she's still around—don't run. Even when she gets quiet, even when she sees through you. Stay.
He swallowed hard.
When he looked up, Summer was watching him.
"You stayed," she said.
"I did," he whispered.
---
Summer's POV
They sat there for a long time, the sound of waves filling the space where words didn't need to go.
She ran a hand over the box, its rough wood warm from the sun. "It's funny," she said softly. "We wrote to survive, not to remember. And yet here we are—remembering."
Ethan nodded. "Maybe that's what survival really is. Remembering and still moving forward."
She smiled. "You're getting poetic again."
"It's the salt air," he said.
She laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder. The paper fluttered in her hand like a soft heartbeat.
---
Ethan's POV
When the tide began to rise, he stood and closed the box again. "What do we do with it?"
Summer thought for a moment. "Leave it."
He looked at her.
"Let the island keep something of us this time," she said. "We've taken enough."
He nodded slowly, understanding.
They placed both letters back into the box, set it beneath the same rock where she'd found it. The sea reached for it, like an old friend reclaiming what was once its own.
As the water touched her toes, Summer whispered, "Thank you."
Ethan reached for her hand. "For what?"
"For holding on when we didn't."
He smiled. "The sea's good at that."
---
Summer's POV
They walked back toward camp, their shadows stretching long behind them,
the ocean swallowing the footprints as it always had.
Summer turned one last time.
The box was already half-hidden by the tide,
but she didn't feel sadness—just peace.
Maybe some stories didn't need to be told again.
Maybe it was enough to know they were still there,
safe under the same sky,
kept by the same sea.