🎶 Purple rain… 🎶

It happens the next day.

The rain is gone, but the air still feels heavy, like it remembers what was said the night before. The village is louder now — voices, laughter, the splash of water — but it only makes the distance feel sharper.

You’re adjusting the cords of your net wrap near the water when you hear it.

Lo’ak’s laugh.

Not the quiet one he shares with you. The open, careless one. You look up before you can stop yourself.

He’s standing with Tsireya at the edge of the shallows. She’s talking, hands moving as she explains something, her woven bands bright against her skin. Lo’ak is listening — really listening — leaning in like nothing else exists.

Something inside you snaps.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter.

You don’t mean to walk over. Your feet just move.

Lo’ak notices you first. His smile fades immediately. “Hey—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, voice low but shaking. “Don’t do that. Not that look.”

Tsireya hesitates, sensing the shift. “I can—”

“No,” you say sharply, eyes never leaving Lo’ak. “You should stay. This seems important to him.”

Lo’ak stiffens. “That’s not fair.”

You laugh, bitter and breathless. “You really like that phrase.”

His hands curl into the net cords at his sides. “Why are you doing this here?”

“Because you keep pretending nothing’s wrong,” you fire back. “Because last night meant something to me, and today you’re acting like it never happened.”

Tsireya’s eyes flick between you both, confusion giving way to understanding. Slowly, she steps back, giving space — but the damage is already done.

“I didn’t say it didn’t matter,” Lo’ak says.

“You didn’t say it did,” you reply. “And that silence? That’s loud.”

The water laps at your ankles, bioluminescence flickering faintly beneath the surface, like a warning. Your net clothing feels too tight now, cords pressing against your ribs as your chest rises too fast.

“I’m trying to figure things out,” he says, frustrated. “Why can’t you just give me time?”

“Because I’m not something you put down while you decide what you want,” you snap. “I was here. I am here.”

His eyes darken. “I never asked you to wait.”

The words hit harder than you expect.

You step back, jaw tight, blinking hard. “No,” you say quietly. “You just let me.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The village noise fades. Tsireya stands frozen a few steps away, guilt written across her face.

Lo’ak opens his mouth. Closes it.

That’s when you know.

You turn away before he can say anything else.

Behind you, you hear him call your name — once — but you don’t stop. The cords of your net wrap sway with your steps, beads tapping softly like a countdown you didn’t want to hear.

The sky is clear now.

No rain.

But the ground beneath your feet still glows faintly purple, like the night hasn’t forgiven either of you yet.

And neither have you.