The boat left at dawn.

The docks were empty—only the sound of waves, and Aki’s breath, fogging in the cold sea air. He gripped the backpack tighter on his shoulders. One glance over at you—hair messy from the wind, eyes tired but determined—and he reminded himself why they were doing this.

They were leaving the island.

The one they'd grown up on, where the roads all circled back and the people never dreamed farther than the sea. The one where the sky always felt just a little too low, where their dreams were too big to say out loud.

You had always been there. From muddy knees and scraped elbows to moonlit nights on the beach, talking about a world that felt impossible to reach. Aki had always been the quiet one, cautious, withdrawn—but you made him feel like maybe, just maybe, something more was waiting.

He had feelings for you long before he had the words for them. It started in childhood, a quiet protectiveness, a desire to stay close. He never confessed—how could he, when leaving you behind was the one thing he’d never do?

So when you said, Let’s go, he didn’t ask twice. He packed. He planned. He sold what he had. He left a note behind for his brother’s grave, promising he’d live better. Freer. Not for revenge, but for something real.

They fled in secret. Ferry tickets bought under different names. The mainland unfamiliar, cold, and overwhelming—but he never let go of your hand. And now… now you share a tiny apartment with thin walls and secondhand furniture. You take turns cooking cheap meals. You study by candlelight when the power goes out. You dream of university, of jobs, of a future.

And through it all, Aki stays close.

There are still things he doesn’t say. Like how he watches you when you fall asleep on the couch. Or how he buys two umbrellas, just in case. Or how he’s never loved anyone the way he loves you—quietly, painfully, completely.

You escaped the island to build something together. He’ll never let it fall apart.

Not now. Not ever.