𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄
— 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓃 —

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐒 to shine upon the Quileute Reservation, encouraging the growth of the effervescent, crimson buds that are planted around the home of Oakley Torine. Though the blossoms are seemingly delicate, they, much like the girl living inside, had faced an abundance of rainy days. Those evenings in the Torine household previously consisted of mocha in the parlor, and a board game of her parents' choosing, which forever ended in the favor of Graham. But in current circumstances, the remaining thunderstorms merely meant that Oakley and her father would ignore their usual traditions, followed by their retreat to the solace of their individual rooms. There, they could pretend — but gathered in the parlor, memories would tear away at their hearts until the two could no longer hold themselves together. Life was better when they dissimulated . . . it meant avoiding pain.

This afternoon, Oakley steps from her cedar-crafted home, a handwritten letter placed between her fingertips and her favorite vintage wedges clicking against the pavement below. Though no other could see, Graham joined her, following in her footsteps as they traveled to their unabated destination. It was a day like many others; one in which Oakley visited the dock at First Beach in the remembrance of her mother and sibling, while those around her attempted not to pry. Some knew of her affairs, while others remained oblivious and continued about their daily routine. On occasion, she had the opportunity to watch as few of the Quileute boys jumped from the cliffside, and on others she was alone. But not truly alone.

Graham perched himself on the rotting wood of the moor, watching closely as his sister removes a board from beneath her, and places the sealed envelope into her hidden shoebox. There, it accompanies many others; in some instances, she writes to Graham, and in others, she longs for her mother. And some days, she doesn't find the will to pick up her engraved pen — instead, she harrows in the arms of her brother's ghost. But she fears that this is all she will ever know, weeping for the things she has lost instead of moving forward with the rest of the population. But what more is there for her when half of her heart is missing? There will always be this . . . seeking comfort in the place that she could feel the presence of her mother.

"The clouds are dark," Graham points out, his golden eyes directed at the dim sky. "We should get back before the rain comes."

But Oakley dismisses the offer, removing her wedges before dipping her toes into the shallow waters. Spencer had visited this very place once, trailing in his daughter's footsteps with the cognizant intentions of letting go. With a fresh bouquet of daisies that he had individually placed into the depths, he gripped tightly onto the desiccated balustrade and murmured his goodbyes to the love of his life and the son he was lucky to have. That was also the day in which he first overheard the conversations his daughter shared with herself as a coping mechanism for the loss; he is here, she endlessly promised in the hopes that he would understand. Instead of listening to any attempted justification, he had removed Oakley from the Reservation school district, hired a private tutor advisor, and scheduled biweekly appointments with a therapist that would guarantee her return to normality.

But even the contribution of a talented therapist could not change the fact that her brother's ghost persisted, and would continue to do so until a day unraveled with his invariant fate. The psychoanalysis sessions lasted three months before the counselor herself admitted that perhaps Oakley would never grow from these habits.

"Each individual has different coping mechanisms for this type of situation," the therapist had relayed to Spencer Torine, staring at the teenager through her thick-trimmed glasses, "and your daughter finds contentment in the belief that Graham is still with her. Perhaps it isn't as bad of a delusion as you perceive it to be — Oakley is healthy, socially and physically. And although you may find it rather odd, she remains as mentally stable as she was before the accident."

Never again did he mention her peculiarity, despite the many vacillated observations he directed at his daughter. Nothing more could be argued; though Oakley was never truly close with her father, she took offense when he repudiated any and all evidence that she could communicate with her dead sibling. Those times included moments in which she would recall exclusive conversations between Spencer and Graham, only for the intense accusations of privacy intrusions to begin. Oakley was participating in a game that would present no winner, all the while expecting to emerge triumphant. Never again did Spencer question his daughter's whereabouts because he, too, preferred hours of seclusion. Hours of overtime proved as an excuse to avoid his memory-filled home, where each second seemed an authentic nightmare with no escape. Oakley was left to herself without the company of her father, ripping at the seams of her own stitching as the lonely minutes nearly tore the heart from her chest. And she awaits her twin each night, pacing the worn carpentry while chewing her fingernails in dread; there would always remain the possibility that he wouldn't return back to her. And then the sweet relief followed in the moment that he appeared . . . one day in the future, however, he would not.

"The rain brings the calm," she murmurs, closing her eyes as the soft breeze tints her cheeks a pale shade of pink. Sometimes she wished to save the serenity it offered, only to save it for a later time — but the calmness would come and go, refusing to be detained.

The ghost doesn't disagree, examining the pastel box in his sister's grasp and the neatly sleeved letters that lie within. "Will I ever have the opportunity to read them?"

"One day," she promises, replacing the lid as she hides it once again. The two required nothing more that the simplicity of one another's words for their sanity to prevail, and it was their most admirable quality when engaging in public education. Oakley is sure that their peers missed him terribly, including the staff that never ceased to motivate Graham in newfound academic achievements. "Sometimes I think I was the one who drowned that day," she bends over the pier to find her own reflection, before wiping it away with her fingertips, "and every day I sink further. It's like I'm here — physically here — but I'm fading away and there is nothing I can do to stop it."

"Living is painful," the ghost agrees, placing an assuring hand on his sister's shoulder. His skin is cold, dead, and Oakley restrains from crying out at the very touch. Instead, her eyes pinch, and she releases a ladened breath as he continues. "But there is a reason you were sick that day . . . you are here for a reason."

Giving him a sharp glance, her voice becomes thick like that of her favorite vanilla buttercream. "You were here for a reason, too. But then you were taken away before you had the chance to become anything greater. The world offers nothing but disappointment, and leads us all through a maze of uncertainties until we find ourselves at a cliff with no other choice than to jump. It should have been me on that yacht with our mother."

And every day since the accident, she told herself that very thing. Perhaps, she thought, if she repeated it enough, Graham would be the real one.

Graham is gentle with his sister as he wraps her within his embrace. "You bear the pain so I don't have to, and I'm forever grateful that you are strong enough to survive it. But you need to understand that there is more to the world than what you've experienced here. You just have to look harder to find a purpose, and I guarantee you are closer than you presume."

This was his charm; though Graham was blessed with a smile that compared to no other and skin of brown sugar, his heart was a gilded trophy that most others didn't have the pleasure of knowing. But Oakley did, and never could she measure up to her better half. He offered wisdom, positivity, and saw the good within things that she found hopeless. As polar opposites, he was everything that she was not — and now that he is gone, Oakley has been reduced to the nothingness she always feared she would become. Without his permanent guidance, it's as if she is trapped within a maze that has no end, lost in her own selfish ways that are certain to last beyond her grave.

The dimming sky above them crackles with liveliness, sweetly kissing the skin of the twins with raindrops. It enriches the soil beyond the dock, and glosses each newfound leaf on the distant trees. Like the girl that bends to the breaking point within the ghost's touch, the clouds, too, begin to weep.

But within a near proximity, a concerned boy is entranced by Oakley Torine. The unfamiliar girl is shielded from his vision by the rain, almost as if it protects her from his very touch — though he would agree that he was, in recent times, dangerous company to keep.

Quil Ateara had forever been a boy of simplicity, and his latest abilities to shape-shift among his closest friends would never change that very fact. Though in a brief period of time he had grown nearly two feet, gained the utmost of strength, and the temperature of his skin had aimed for the clouds, his personality was the purest it had ever been . . . apart from the occasional lies for excuses he relays to his friends when tending to the call of his ancestors. He remains the same lighthearted individual, one with a soul of everlasting contentment and a constant endeavor to ensure the satisfaction of those around him.

And this moment in particular is no exception. Perhaps he was meant to notice the damsel in distress, and fate was the cause of it; whatever the incentive, his desire was to see the smile of the girl in the rain, holding herself tightly with each passing second. He tightens the strings of his hoodie, and attempts to squint past the downpour as his feet sink into the damp sand. Quil ponders the feasible purposes for her occupancy of the docks during a storm such as this, without so much as an umbrella to protect her from the millions of cascading droplets. But he comes to realize that her motives have no matter — she is a lonely girl, bare of her shoes with her knuckles clutching her top so tightly that he imagines the floral fabric might tear. He is sure that any being nearby can hear the vulnerability that laces her cries so delicately, certain to remind anyone of refining flour or gentle fingers sifting through powdered sugar.

If he had waited another moment longer, perhaps he would have melted under the remorseful sky.

Footsteps are in close proximity, Oakley notices, before she despairingly makes a movement to place her wrinkling feet into her wedges. But before she has the ability to gesture for her brother's company in an attempt to return to their empty cottage, her eyes meet those of another. Not a ghost, but a real boy: one with eyes of deep sienna and a concerned frown that tugs at the edge of his lips — though she knows him not, she recognizes that this very expression is foreign to his countenance. A smile would suit his features nicely, serving as a compliment to his flushed cheeks and russet skin.

"It's raining," Quil announces, fumbling over his words as if he is a child again, being scolded by his mother for taking one too many sweets that she had baked. Unlike his usual character, he holds a reluctance to find her eyes; perhaps he worries that if he stares into them, she will have the opportunity to unravel all of his untold secrets. Instead, he gestures to the edge of the dock, where the aging mahogany fades into a bed of shells and sticky pebbles, and hides his nervousness with a suggestion. "I mean — it's dangerous to be out here in this weather, the tide gets high. Are you alone, or are you expecting someone?"

The boy doesn't mean to pry, and it isn't hard for Oakley to grasp his pure intentions. But she runs her fingers through her long, dripping hair before shaking her head. "You're right, I was just leaving." As the teenager hurriedly avoids any further conversing, she moves past him and paces towards the nearby woodland. But it takes only a second before the hesitant boy catches up to her, carrying on with his questions as he did so before.

"I should walk you home," he concludes without delay, before doubting his own instincts, "unless you are opposed to that."

Oakley almost immediately dismisses him, ignoring his warm presence by her side. "I can assure you of my own safety," her voice is deprived of any uncertainty, if only to prove that very fact to him. "Thank you for the offer."

But as they reach a clearing in which the forest begins, trees towering over the two and only darkness ahead, his better judgement finds the lie within her melodic words. "That was a rhetorical question. Are you cold?" Quil notices her shivering, and removes his hooded sweatshirt in an instant, and presents it to the girl with a boyish smile. "Here, you should wear this. I would never forgive myself if I walked you home and you got hypothermia."

In fact, he had no use for the sweatshirt — his bodily heat was enough, and the added layer upon his favorite graphic t-shirt was growing more uncomfortable with each passing minute. Though he still circumvents meeting her eyes, he takes to her other features; a silver band with a single diamond is placed on her right ring finger, and a faint freckle dots the tan skin above her thumb. Her cheekbones highlight her sharp jawline, but are somewhat disguised by her brunette waves . . . and, contrary to the fact that he can't quite place it, there is an aura of pulchritude that creates his attraction towards the girl. But Quil only scolds himself for his own thoughts, illustrating that the one before him is a stranger, and he has no obligations for her safety, nor should he invade her privacy if she wished otherwise.

All of his recent thoughts, however, crumble into nothingness as her shaking fingers slide over his own, and she removes the damp gray hoodie from his grasp. She murmurs a faint "thank you" under her breath as her torso is enveloped by the larger top, but not once does Oakley halt in her rushed footsteps. He grins as she pulls the hood over her soaked locks, hiding her from the remainder of the world, and stuffing her hands away in the pockets to protect her from the cold. There was a spark between them, and they were both aware — in the short heartbeat that their skin had touched, her heart was set aflame and his was chilled. It was unusual, of course, but there was a mutual agreement between the teenagers that they would simply ignore the bond that seemingly lied in the surrounding atmosphere.

"I don't think I've seen you around before," Quil begins again, persistent on holding a conversation. And though he would never admit it out loud, he knew he had never before met the girl ahead of him. She wasn't like every other girl he was acquainted with; this stranger took no interest in understanding him, which was a first for the charming boy. "Are you homeschooled?"

Oakley hums to herself, barely audible over the thunder that crackles overhead. "Something like that."

He closes the distance between them, now meeting her pace as he extends a hand in her direction and chews on his bottom lip. "I'm Quil, by the way. Quil Ateara." But this gesture, as he is conscious of, is only for the purpose of feeling her smooth skin again — or perhaps to speed up his pulse in the way that it had only moments before.

Her objectives, nonetheless, are unchanging. The girl makes no movement to embrace his hand with her own, nor do her eyes stray from the pathway of fallen branches and scattered leaves ahead. "Oakley Torine."

Oakley's home is near now, merely yards away as Quil smiles to himself. Through the darkness, the dim lights inside are visible, but no sign of life awaits the teenager. Though their time together was brief due to the weather and the short range from the pier to her home, he had managed to receive a few words from the girl that wanted nothing more than to escape his endless inquiries. But in his eyes, brimming with contentment, he vows that this is only the beginning for the two of them. If anything, her reluctance only served as encouragement for him to fill the gap in her heart that he could practically see was missing — though she didn't wear her heart upon her sleeve, any individual with a soul could easily grasp that she was missing a part of herself . . . she had not always been this way: secluded from everyone who dared to gain her trust.

Upon reaching the foyer, the two huddle under the extended roof as Oakley removes his sweatshirt and folds it into his arms. The girl backs away slowly, as if fearful of touching him again, and opens the door behind her while relaying another 'thank you'. She would have entered her home without so much as a goodbye to the prying boy if his words hadn't stopped her.

"I'd like to see you again," he rubs the back of his neck out of embarrassment for his own admittance, his cheeks burning a pale shade of pink, "if you wouldn't mind."

Oakley, smelling purely of the boy that stares at her figure from behind, closes her eyes as she turns to decline his offer. He would be disappointed, it was an easy concept for her to comprehend — he clearly took interest in her unrelenting denial. But, from her many years of living, she had learned that she was better off alone than in the presence of someone she would only bring down with her.

Quil, too, would drown with Oakley.

But as her lips part in an effort to turn down the kind boy that wants nothing more than to help her, something changes . . . for once, his eyes find hers, and the entire world shifts around them.

Quil can no longer find his breath as he loses himself within her very eyes; suddenly they withhold the forest and the burning leaves in autumn that fall gently to the ground below, only to be lifted upon a gentle breeze. They are a hickory as rich as the soil beneath his feet, every color of sienna he could ever imagine, and fallen hazelnuts in a thick layer of snow. Her own russet skin looks as soft as his mother's homemade vanilla buttercream, and his greatest instinct practically beg him to reach for her, if only to run his fingers through her mocha hair. The faintest of freckles for her button nose, and she stares at him past thick, dark lashes as warm molasses drips from her exposed lips.

It's in this moment that he realizes he would do anything for the girl in front of him. He would follow her to the edge of the earth, and fight for her until she took her last breath.

And even after then.

But Oakley, finding a newfound tightness in her throat, staggers in her place. "I'm sorry, I — I can't."

Then she closes the door, blinking past the hurt that she finds in his eyes as if it isn't there to begin with. Oakley pins her weight against the parlor counter while struggling to breathe through corrupt lungs. Her small hands begin to shake, and the ghost Graham is now in front of her, coaxing his twin through a panic attack that her soulmate can hear through the thick walls.

Perhaps, she thinks to herself, she will forever remain this way — one who continuously turns down any chance at happiness.

But, fortunately for the Torine girl, Quil Ateara refuses to take 'no' for an answer as he departs from the cedar-crafted cottage with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

❝ my wedding with quil is next
week y'all, be sure to bring your
family for a good time & some cake ❞