Open by asking what time they're off. Push off from this if it helps: a lighthouse.

The ferry. Leaves in twenty minutes. Don’t ask me why I’m not running. My legs are lead, just like the sky. The captain’s already yelling over the rain, sounding like a man who’s lost a bet with the ocean. I should go. I should step back into it, let the chill wake me up before the damp settles into my bones forever.

But I’m standing here watching the water pool on the pavement. It’s dramatic. Apocalyptic, even. That’s what I tell myself. That I’m pausing at the edge of a grand departure. In reality, I’m just freezing. And I’m thinking about how easy it would be to stay. To let the boat go without me. To dissolve into the gray until I’m just part of the weather.

You always did have a cruel streak. Or maybe just accurate. I can feel the engine thrumming through the soles of my shoes, a low, vibrating threat. It’s rude, honestly. To leave you here in the deluge. But the ferry doesn’t care about my poetry, or your judgment. It’s a steel beast, indifferent and hungry.

I should move. If I don’t, I’ll stay. And if I stay, I’ll hate myself for it. Or maybe I’ll just love the warmth of this tiny, leaking alcove more than the cold, shouting deck. The rain is hammering now, a deafening roar. It’s beautiful, in a terrifying way. Like the world is washing itself clean. I’m not sure I want to be washed clean. I like the grime. It feels real.

The grime is honest. The boarding pass is just paper. You think I don’t know it’s just a boat? Of course I do. That’s the point. It’s a vessel, nothing more. But standing here, watching the water line rise against the concrete, it feels like a judgment.

You’re dry-ish. That’s the worst part. You’re comfortable while I’m drowning in the minor details of my own exit. I could tear this ticket up. Watch it disintegrate in my fist. But I won’t. Because if I don’t go, I have to admit that staying here, listening to you mock my performance, is preferable to the cold reality of the deck.

It’s pathetic, really. The way I’m stuck. You’d laugh. You’d probably laugh harder than you are now.

The captain’s voice cuts through the rain again. Sharper this time. I have to move. Or I have to say why I’m not moving. Which is worse?

Twelve feet. It’s twelve miles. It’s the chasm between who I am and who the ticket says I am. You make it sound so simple. Just walk. But if I walk, I accept the premise. That I’m leaving. That I’m empty.

I look at your face, wet and sharp. I want to tell you that I’m terrified. Not of the water, but of the silence on the other side. The silence where I won’t have your sharp, unimpressed gaze to ground me. It’s a coward’s fear. You know it. I know it.

But the rain is stinging my eyes now. I can’t see you clearly anymore. Maybe that’s better. I turn. The twelve feet feel like a lifetime. I take one step. Then another. The engine roars, swallowing the sound of my hesitation. I don’t look back. I can’t. If I look back, I’ll see you standing there, dry and right, and I’ll never make it across.

Sharp and unimpressed. That’s the brand. I laugh, a wet, jagged sound that the wind snatches away instantly. You think this is a routine? A pass-through? You don’t get it. This isn’t a commute. It’s an erasure.

I grab the railing. Cold steel biting into my palm. Real. More real than the idea of you waiting there, pristine and judgmental. The gangway sways. Twelve feet. Just twelve feet. I step out onto the metal grating. The engine vibrates up through my bones, shaking the doubt loose, or maybe just rattling my teeth.

I don’t look back. I can’t afford to see that dry patch of pavement. I can’t afford to see you shrugging. I just walk. Into the roar. Into the gray. Let the city have me. It’s what it wants. And you? You stay there, watching the splash of water hit the harbor wall, wondering if I’ll ever come back, or if I’m just part of the weather now.

Text you. Right. As if I have a signal up here. The rain blocks everything. And "profound"? You wound me. I’m just cold. Actually cold. You’re acting like I’m signing a treaty, not boarding a local run.

I pull my coat tighter. The wind tries to peel it back. I stumble slightly on the wet grate, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Stupid. Physical. Real.

You’re shivering down there. I can see your shoulders hunched. I want to shout something comforting. Something warm. But I just keep walking. One foot. Then the other. The roar is deafening now. Total isolation.

I’ll keep my teeth. I’ll keep my boardings pass. I’ll keep the memory of you being cruel, which was the only thing that felt real.

Bye, Hana. Don’t wait up. The city doesn’t care. Neither do I. Not really.