Days pass.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just quietly enough that it hurts more.

You stop sitting where you used to sit. You take longer paths through the village. You keep your hands busy — tightening cords on your net wrap, reweaving beads that don’t need fixing — anything to avoid standing still long enough to think about him.

Lo’ak notices.

Of course he does.

But he doesn’t come to you.

Sometimes you catch him watching from across the water, shoulders tense, like he wants to move and doesn’t know how. Sometimes you hear your name almost leave his mouth — and then he turns away.

Tsireya stays polite. Distant. Careful.

That somehow hurts too.

One night, you return to the strand alone. The bioluminescence flickers faintly beneath your feet, not bright enough to be beautiful — just enough to remind you of what used to be here.

You sit.

You wait.

He doesn’t come.

The netted fabric across your shoulders rustles softly in the breeze. The beads at your waist are cold now. Everything feels colder. You press your arms around yourself, staring out at the dark water.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You just let the ache settle, deep and quiet, like something that’s decided to stay.

Somewhere behind you, footsteps stop.

You don’t turn.

Lo’ak stands there for a moment — close enough that you can feel his presence, far enough that he doesn’t touch you. The space between you feels deliberate now. Chosen.

“I didn’t mean for it to end like this,” he says softly.

You swallow. “Neither did I.”

Silence.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits.

You nod once. “That’s been the problem.”

He doesn’t argue.

The ocean hums. The night breathes. The strand glows faintly purple, like a memory refusing to fade.

“I hope you’re okay,” he says finally.

You close your eyes. “I will be.”

It’s not a promise. Just a statement. Eventually.

When you open them again, he’s already walking away.

You don’t stop him.

Some love stories don’t end with goodbyes.

Some just end with distance.

And the space where something once lived.