The "Cultural Night" dinner ended not with a bang, but with a suffocating politeness. Liam, ever the gentleman, had walked Layla back to her second-floor door, oblivious to the fact that she felt like she was walking on a floor of cracked glass. He'd kissed her forehead, promised her a "spectacular" sunrise on the water the next morning, and headed up to the third floor.
Now, Layla stood in the dark of her room, the air conditioning rattling like a dying breath. She didn't turn on the lights. She didn't want to see her own reflection, the girl who had sat there and let a ghost claim her under the table while her boyfriend toasted to her perfection.
She couldn't stay in the room. The walls felt like they were closing in, vibrating with the residual energy of Jade's proximity. She decided she needed water, real, cold water from the vending area at the end of the hall, anything to justify leaving the space where she could still feel the phantom pressure of his leg against hers.
She stepped into the hallway, pulling her thin cardigan tight. The resort was quiet, the distant sound of the ocean a low-frequency hum. She reached the ice machine, the mechanical roar of it filling the silence, when a shadow detached itself from the alcove near the emergency exit.
Jade was there. He wasn't wearing the black shirt from dinner; he was in a white tank top, looking worn out and dangerously real. He was holding a room key between his fingers, flipping it like a coin.
"Running away again?" he asked. There was no mockery in his voice this time. Just a tired curiosity.
"I'm getting ice, Jade. Not everything is a metaphor," Layla snapped, though her shaking hands betrayed her.
"You're getting ice because your skin feels like it's on fire," he countered, stepping into the harsh fluorescent light of the vending area. "And we both know it's not the spicy sauce, Layla. Stop lying to yourself. It's insulting to both of us."
Meanwhile, on the third floor, the atmosphere was entirely different. Sarah was sitting on the floor of her shared room with Kianna, but her mind was back at the small table by the buffet. She was texting Kofi.
Sarah: "Currently being held hostage by Kianna's skincare routine. Send help."
Kofi: "At least you have a routine. My roommate is currently trying to explain the 'blockchain' to a lizard on the balcony. I'd take the face masks any day."
For the first time since landing in Thailand, Sarah felt like she wasn't an extra in someone else's movie. She was the lead in her own subplot, one that didn't involve pining over Jade or being the "reliable best friend" for Liam. She looked over at Kianna, who was meticulously applying a gold-leaf eye mask, looking perfect and untouched by the drama.
"You and Jade okay?" Sarah asked, testing the waters.
Kianna paused, her reflection in the vanity mirror frozen. "Jade is... Jade. He's here, isn't he? He's doing what he's supposed to do."
The answer was hollow, and Sarah knew it. Kianna was clinging to the "jacket" and the "title," but even she seemed to realize she was holding onto a shadow.
Back on the second floor, the tension in the vending alcove snapped.
"What do you want from me, Jade?" Layla whispered, the ice bucket clattering to the floor, forgotten. "I did what I was supposed to do. I chose the good guy. I chose the life that doesn't break every three weeks. Why can't you just let me live it?"
Jade took two steps forward, closing the distance until the air between them was charged with the same static that had haunted her since Montreal. He didn't touch her, but he leaned in close enough that she could smell the sea salt and the faint scent of the soap from his room.
"Because you're miserable," he said, his voice a jagged edge. "And the worst part isn't that you're lying to Liam. It's that you're turning yourself into a ghost just to fit into his world. You want the 'Safe Mode'? Fine. Stay with him. Go on the boat tomorrow. Wear the sundress. But don't you dare look at me and pretend you don't feel the difference between his 'perfection' and this."
He reached out then, his thumb grazing the pulse point at the base of her throat. Her heart thudded against his skin like a trapped bird.
"See?" he murmured. "He gets the toasts. I get the truth."
He pulled his hand away and walked down the hall toward his room, leaving Layla standing by the ice machine, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
5: 00 AM. The alarm on Layla's phone goes off, a bright, cheery chime. It's time for the catamaran trip.
Liam calls her, his voice full of morning energy. "Hey, babe! Sunrise is in twenty minutes. I'm heading down to your floor now. You ready to head out?"
Layla looks at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes are red, her skin is pale, and the "Safe Mode" icon in her mind is flashing a bright, neon red: CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE.
"I'm ready," she lies, her voice cracking.
The line went dead, and Layla sat on the edge of her bed, the phone still warm against her palm. Outside, the sky was shifting from the bruised purple of night to a deceptive, pale gold. It was the kind of morning that promised a fresh start, but Layla knew better.
She stood up and walked to the sliding glass door, her fingers hovering over the handle. She didn't open it. She just pressed her forehead against the cool glass, looking at the balcony partition that separated her world from Jade's.
On his side of the glass, she saw a single, glowing ember.
Jade was out there. He wasn't sleeping; he was leaning against the railing, the smoke from his cigarette curling into the humid morning air. He didn't turn to look at her, but he didn't have to. He was just there, a constant, unmovable weight in the center of her life that Liam's sunrise couldn't wash away.
She watched the ember brighten and fade, brighten and fade, like a slow, rhythmic heartbeat. It was a countdown. In less than an hour, she would be on a boat in the middle of the ocean, trapped in the "Perfect Trip" with a boy who loved a version of her that was currently dying, and a boy who knew exactly what was taking its place.
Layla turned away from the window and began to pull her swimsuit on. Her hands were steady now, but it wasn't the steadiness of peace. It was the cold, hollow stillness of a person walking toward a wreck they could see coming from a mile away.