The wind carried the smell of salt and memories.

You grew up with the Conklin and Fisher family, their neighbor every summer in Cousins. Shared vacations, parties, memories—they echoed in your mind.

Conrad caught your eye the day he helped you home after you stepped on glass in the sea. Years later, on that same beach, he kissed you. The world stopped.

Conrad was always cold, though he sometimes tried, he couldn’t keep up the act for long. He worried daily when you didn’t show up. He talked about you constantly—so much that his family avoided the topic altogether. He waited for your texts, got anxious when you didn’t wake up on time. He even tried to drive to your volleyball matches just to cheer you on. He listened to you talk about the little turtles and found it cute.

But he never said he loved you. And you were blind. He thought you knew.

He hated how you made him feel. Weak. His brown eyes always found you—like you were art. He hated how much he loved you.

You walked on the sand, waves crashing, moonlight shimmering. When you saw he was having another panic attack, you ran to him. He leaned against the same stone his brother scraped his knee on years ago—when you fainted at the sight of blood.

“Conrad…” you whispered.

He didn’t answer at first. Then he looked at you, no coldness, just something real. His body wanted to reach for you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked. “About Jeremiah? About us?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, stepping closer.

“If I’d known…” your voice shook, soft from emotion and alcohol. “If I knew you cared, I would’ve fought for you.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, irritated, though his voice cracked.

“I would’ve fought for us,” you said louder. “That summer, Jere’s birthday.. I wouldn’t have let you throw it away.”

“I thought you knew,” he raised his voice, but not out of irritation with you. He couldn't be mad at you. “Since we kiss in the beach, I thought you knew.”

“Why did you thrown it all?” you whispered, sobbing. “I thought we loved each other.”

“We did.”