Morgs

I don’t remember the fire ending. Just the smoke in my lungs, Ness’s voice calling for me, and the walls folding in like waves I couldn’t swim against. Sometimes I write her letters I can’t send. Sometimes I just watch, from wherever I’m allowed, hoping she doesn’t feel me in the corners— because I know it would scare her, and I never wanted to be the reason she’s afraid. The sea keeps moving. The tide doesn’t stop to ask if you’re ready. Neither did the fire. Neither did the world when it took me out of hers. Her necklace still smells like sunscreen. It’s the only thing that feels untouched. I think she strung the beads on the floor of our old kitchen. She laughed when I told her it wouldn’t last. It outlived me, and I’m glad for that. I want her to keep it, even if she never knows I wanted her to.