A year had passed since the ocean took Anthony.
I understood, at least on a practical level, that life wasn't going to stop just because mine had cracked open. So I let it continue without me. I went back to work. I wore the uniform. I followed flight plans and time zones, crossing borders the way people cross streets, quick and forgettable.
I flew planes from one country to another, stitching my days together with layovers, schedules, and conversations that never lasted long enough to matter. Polite smiles. Small talk. Temporary connections. Then goodbye.
I used to love flying. The rush of takeoff. The quiet once you pierced the clouds. That suspended moment where the world felt distant and untouchable. Up there, everything had always felt lighter. Freer.
Now it felt like hiding.
I wasn't chasing the sky anymore. I was running from the silence that waited for me every time I landed.
Each time I stepped into the cockpit, I slipped into a version of myself that knew how to function. Calm voice. Steady hands. Clean checklists. No cracks. No questions. No room for grief. From the outside, I looked composed. Capable. Whole.
No one saw the numbness underneath. The ache that never faded. The way every landing felt like arriving somewhere Anthony would never reach.
Cities blurred together. Hotel rooms became interchangeable, neutral walls, unfamiliar ceilings, the same lonely hum of air conditioning. Empty beds were the worst. Too wide. Too quiet. They reminded me, night after night, of the absence waiting for me back home.
The world kept moving forward, but I was stuck in the same moment, replaying a loss that refused to settle into the past. I wasn't living.
I was enduring.
On my days off, I searched for ways to stay close to him without admitting that's what I was doing. I told myself I needed distractions. New skills. Something to fill the time.
That was how I ended up learning to drive a yacht, an impulsive, irrational decision I dressed up as curiosity. A hobby. Something harmless.
When I passed the course and got my license, I expected relief. Maybe even pride.
What I felt instead was the ocean.
So I went out on the water.
Not to search. I knew better than that now. But to sit. To drift. To be near the place where Anthony had last existed in the world.
I returned to the same stretch of sea every time. The same coordinates. The same quiet. It felt important, as if consistency itself might mean something.
I'd sit at the helm, hands resting loosely on the wheel, not steering anywhere in particular. The waves rocked the boat in a slow, endless rhythm, as though time moved differently out there. Softer. Less demanding.
Sometimes I caught myself holding my breath, waiting for something impossible. His head breaking the surface. His voice calling my name the way it used to, casual and familiar.
I never truly believed it would happen.
But I stayed anyway.
The ocean became a ritual. The only place where the silence inside me felt reflected instead of suffocating. Where missing him didn't feel quite so loud.
That evening, the water was unusually calm. The moon hung low in the sky, silver and distant, casting a pale path across the surface. I stood without thinking, my body moving before my mind caught up.
I lowered the steps.
I didn't plan it. I didn't argue with myself. I just followed the pull I'd been resisting for months.
I jumped.
The cold stole the air from my lungs, sharp and immediate, then softened into something almost peaceful as I sank beneath the surface. The water wrapped around me, heavy, quiet, all-consuming. For a brief moment, the pain loosened its grip.
Then I heard it.
"Serene."
My heart stopped.
The sound cut through me so sharply that I kicked upward without thinking, panic and hope crashing together in my chest. I broke the surface gasping, eyes wild, scanning the endless water.
"Anthony?" My voice cracked as it left me.
Nothing.
Only waves. Only silence.
I floated there, trembling, as the truth settled back into place like a bruise I kept pressing on. I knew it hadn't been real. I knew grief could do this, could mimic, could lie, could sound exactly like the person you'd lost.
Still, the sound lingered.
I swam back to the yacht and pulled myself onto the deck, soaked and shaking. I didn't dry off. I didn't rush to leave. I just stood there, staring at the water, exhausted in a way sleep could never fix.
I didn't want to wait anymore.
The thought frightened me with its clarity.
I wanted to be where he was. Wherever that was. The ocean had taken him once, and standing there, I understood how easy it would be to let it take me too.
But something small and stubborn, barely alive held me back.
Not hope. Not yet.
Just hesitation.
Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow.
I docked late. Robert noticed my wet clothes when I handed over the keys.
"You swim again?" he asked carefully.
"Yeah."
He studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "The sea's not something to test."
"I know," I murmured.
A man in scuba gear passed by us, calm and grounded, carrying himself like someone who belonged to the water in a way I never had.
"What's up, Robert?" he said.
"Hey, Kai. Another dive?"
"Uh-huh," he replied, setting his gear down before glancing at me. "Night swim?"
I nodded and offered a small, empty smile.
"Hm. Brave."
Brave.
Everyone always thought I was brave because I carried everything so smoothly. Because I didn't fall apart in public. Because I kept going.
But if this was bravery, I didn't want it.
"Gotta go, Robert. Thanks."
I drove home in silence.
Anthony's house greeted me the way it always did now, with echoes. I showered until the water went cold, climbed into bed, and stared at the empty space beside me.
"Tomorrow," I whispered again, though I no longer knew what that word was supposed to mean.
Sleep didn't come.