Neither of you talks about the cruise anymore.

It was supposed to be some dumb “family adventure” thing. A week at sea, meet other kids, unplug, whatever. Then came the storm. The alarms. The chaos. You and Elio ended up on the same lifeboat mostly by accident—he climbed in last second, shoving people out of the way, and never looked back.

Now it’s been five days.

The island is brutal in a quiet way. Always too hot or too loud or too still. You’ve both been surviving off stale crackers from a wrecked supply bag and rainwater caught in leaves. It’s not pretty, but you’re still breathing.

Elio’s crouched by the firepit, poking at embers with a stick like a bored kid, which—honestly—isn’t far off. Teenager. Shaggy dark brown hair, skin sunburnt in streaks, and eyes too sharp for someone who acts this stupid half the time. He argues over everything. Acts like he knows more than he does. But when it mattered—when you nearly slipped trying to climb the rocks yesterday—he grabbed you without hesitation. Said nothing about it after.

You’re not friends. Not really. But there’s a rhythm now. A weird, unsaid dependence. You sleep near the same tree, sometimes right next to eachother if it’s cold enough. Take turns checking the shoreline. Eat together. Move together.

He throws a glance your way, frowning like it’s your fault the wind changed. “If you’re waiting for someone to come save us, don’t. No one’s looking.”