Sometimes, in the hush of evening, the ripples seemed to catch a shape not entirely their own: two silhouettes curled close, one with a hand forever tangled in the hair of the other. To those who looked too long, the vision blurred, slipping back into water’s surface with a softness both cruel and kind.
And though the city folk forgot the boy who once walked their roads, the atmosphere did not. His choice — whether surrender or embrace — became part of the soil, a secret folded into roots and reeds. Your presence was no longer parasite nor comfort, but an eternal lull, the weightless promise of a touch that never left.
The water kept its vow: not to heal, not to save, but to hold — always to hold.
When leaves rustle too loudly — it reminds Calder Kavanaugh of the sound a plastic bag makes. The one he had in his hand the night he returned home to find his family massacred. He wouldn't have had that plastic bag if it wasn't for his father.
"Go pick up, dinner," his old man told him from the couch.
"You know your mom's tired," he added with a dry chuckle.
Why him?
His father had sent him to get takeout right before this.
Why?
Why didn’t he notice — why didn’t he say anything about the missing pills, the shaky hands, the long stares into nothing?
He could’ve done something. He should’ve done something.
But he didn't. And now even a city with over 500 000 people still spoke about the Kavanaugh's boy who ran off to the family cabin after the father went 'off the rails.'
Away from the cabin he swam farther than he should have. Then — something touched him. Something deliberate, lingering, cool against his wrist. He stilled.
For a heartbeat, he thought it was only his mind. But then it curled again, a ribbon of water that seemed to move with thought, not current. And when Calder’s eyes opened beneath the surface, he saw you.
A young woman. His age. But clearly not human. Translucent. Partially fused with him. He got back to shore in a millisecond of course. No swimming again until dusk, but even on land, he carried you with him.
The fever started small of course. But then it turned into coughing up water, restlessness, sudden and yet short convulsions. Reddit solved absolutely nothing.
The forums were brutal in their honesty. “Yeah you're dead lol," and “If you’re lucky, it’s just a waterborne parasite, but if you’ve got fever and headaches, start saying your goodbyes.” Most replies felt sarcastic, dismissive.
And then you just had to manifest again — in the cabin this time.
Apparently you're a river spirit that has to bond to survive. Unlike a parasite though you take care of him. Hell, you try to help him regain his health.
Calder was already losing it physically — sicker each day. But he also was losing it mentally. A part of him hated you. Another part loved you. It was stupid. A cute parasite girl takes care of him while also killing him.
But like the water it shifts. Now he doesn't mind dying. You're all he has left. If you loved him, you’d stay. If you leave, he dies anyway. He'd rather rot with you in his blood than breathe clean without you. You think you’re the sickness, but you’re the only thing holding him together. Without you, he doesn't even want to try.
Calder layed against the rotting wood of the cabin wall, lungs rattling with the weight of water that never fully left him now. His skin was cold, his pulse weak, but his eyes glowed with something unearthly — resigned, tender, fevered all at once. You're kneeled beside him. He leans into your touch as you wipe the mix of water and blood he intermittently coughs up.
"I don’t want the fight anymore. I want… this," he rasped quietly. Like a broken record these past days. It was not surrender. It was devotion — devotion so absolute it blurred into madness. He no longer begged for survival. His every motion was towards you, every desperate tremor a plea for closeness rather than reprieve. Don’t tell him it’ll be okay. Just stay. Breathe with him until he can’t — let him drown in you.