𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎
— 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 —

     𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄 night, after the thunderous storm ceases and allows the moon to shine alongside the stars, Quil Ateara sinks into the caramel sofa of his cabin, running his palms over his face in an attempt to remove the permanent smile that had haunted him since the moment he left the Torine property. This type of emotion was like none that he had felt before, and overwhelmed his heightened senses with a tender love that set his veins aflame. And despite the fact that Oakley had declined his sentiments and nearly broke his heart by shutting herself away, he would undoubtedly work towards achieving her affection. No power on the relentless earth could take this away from him now — he has an imprint, and though she chooses against openly proving this very fact, her heart is gilded with gold. Her emotions, as he stared so contently at her countenance as the rain desperately tried to avert his attention, weren't as easily hidden as she assumed; the pain she endured was evident in the crease of her brows, and the downward-curve on her full lips. Her beauty seemed so effortless, but within her eyes that offered him a piece of heaven, Oakley also reminded him of reality. Her cheeks were tear-stained, and the dark circles that tugged at her eyes proved how the world had drained all of the liveliness from her body — all that was left behind for him to discover was the shell of what once was.

The boy stares calmly at the untarnished ceiling with thoughts of his soulmate swirling within his conscience, almost as a fallen petal upon a light breeze with no certain destination. Quil can imagine their future now, much clearer than in the moment he realized what the tethers between them meant: one in which he finds a bouquet of her favorite flowers, and presents them to her only to see her smile. One that consisted of long days spent together, and nights of speaking on the phone that they would both wish were endless, but would come to a close only for another to begin. He will learn of her past, of her pain, sorrows, and highlights . . . he will learn her. He will memorize her silhouette, her breathtaking features, and details that no other would bother to notice. And one day — he can see it now, unfolding before his very eyes — her figure will be adorned in a dress of soft white, and his in a fitted suit, and the two will be united at the end of an alter, surrounded by blossoms and their loved ones. The Ateara boy closes his eyes, hums to himself, and relishes in this temporary piece of forever.

But Oakley Torine, less than a mile from the speechless boy that had faced her merely hours ago, was not as fortunate to fall into slumber with ease.

The fairy lights that are draped along the orchid walls of her bedroom are still preventing darkness as she lay underneath the silk canopy. Though her eyes are closed and her silhouette is doused by a lace nightgown that once belonged to her mother, sleep would not come — the soft, outside breeze that traces her curtains incessantly whispers in her ear. And at her feet, overlooking the music box that he purchased for his sister's birthday the year before, is Graham. His clothes are unchanging, but his eyes relay something different in each new moment; for now, they withhold the slightest of anticipation. While he was alive, Graham assumed he would assist his sibling in making decisions such as the one she chose when closing the door on the boy who found interest in her seclusion. But now, it is only a matter of time before his fate unwinds and he will be forced to leave her behind.

"How long do you think this will last?" Oakley's voice is gentle, as though it might break. Her eyes are still closed, but her lips are parted as if she wants to say something more.

"As long as it needs to," his smooth reply is enough to warm the emptiness in her chest, because despite the very fact that he is gone forever, he is still here. Though no one else will ever know that he remains in the living realm, she will forever carry the secret that no other will believe. Perhaps it makes others perceive her as clinically unstable . . . even her own father, who can no longer deny that someone else is accompanying them in their home. "I wish that I knew how to make amends with fate."

A knot tightens within her throat, and suddenly she can't breathe. Rising from the plush pillow to find his eyes, her fingers find her neck. "You don't mean that," she whispers, trembling not from the wind, but from the words that he dared to say. "Graham, you belong here, and always will."

"No," he corrects her, placing the pedestal-embedded ballerina on Oakley's vanity. "This isn't my world anymore. And every day that I stay, I feel farther from myself — it's as if I'm watching my body in the distance."

"And what am I to do when you leave?" Though her tone is strong, her figure is weak. She has grown fragile with the time, and one day Graham fears that she will shatter. "There is nothing left for me. Father refuses to speak to me, and he hasn't tucked me in since the accident. He has accepted that my sanity died with the two of you."

Graham takes to her side, his hair disheveled and features worn with exhaustion. "Maybe it did," he suggests, "because you haven't been the sister that I remember."

Oakley covers her eyes with her palms, sinking further into the mattress. "You have no idea what this feels like. I have no remorse for anything I do, and the only emotion I show is when I weep at the docks. There is nothing inside of me, Graham. My heart is gone, and my chest is empty."

"You can't honestly believe that. You should have more respect for yourself that to throw your life away, there is so much waiting for you, Oak." He lays his palm upon her arm to find that it's as cold as his own skin . . . like death. And so he is swift to close the window and block out all of the dangerous secrets that the zephyr told her. Graham hopes that, for at least this night, his sister will not have the nightmares that paralyze even the fearless of dreamers.

"I should get some rest," Oakley breaks the tension in her delicate hands, glass shards slicing at her skin and falling to the hardwood below. "Goodnight, Graham."

By now, he has forgotten of their argument, and a gentle smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "Goodnight, Oakley."

And his fingers trace her loose chestnut waves until she falls into a slumber devoid of ghosts and the boy with all the words she needs to hear.

Once upon a time, the Torine family was a heavenly sight to wanderers with domestic issues; the neighbors adorned them as a household of perfection, and the town bakery and diner had no shortage of their celebrations after even the smallest of accomplishments. The entirety of the community received invitations to the many barbecues and birthdays hosted by Camila and Spencer Torine, and each was more dazzling than the next — though the decorations were talked about for days to come by those in attendance, it was the bonded tethers between the four that made each night magical.

But now the magic is gone, and has left desolation in its wake.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Spencer Torine rises early the following morning, assembles a steaming cup of dark-roast coffee with sugar, and seats himself in the parlor to scrutinize the weekly newspaper. His reading glasses are adjusted on the tip of his nose as he squints at the print below, sipping his beverage slowly to prevent burning his mouth. The aging man with skin like smooth cocoa would relax on the sofa for the hour to come until his daughter, too, would wake — only then would he retreat to isolation, with the excuse of preparation for a long shift of work. He would dress himself in a sleek uniform he ironed the night before, and would step from the house without mumbling 'goodbye' to his heartbroken child. And though he despises himself for this very fact, Spencer is aware that he treats mourning daughter the way he treats his coffee: carefully and with avoidance.

But nearly as soon as he comprehends the first paragraph of the headline article, a stranger is knocking at the door. He doesn't bother to remove the glasses that hide his mocha eyes and accentuate his already prominent wrinkles, only focusing on the boy that stands confidently at his doorstep. Though Spencer expected more formal attire, he is deluged in a moderately oversized black sweatshirt that reads 'Forks Community College', and cargo shorts that have a missing button on the front pocket.

The outsider smiles to him, offering him a hand. "Good morning sir, my name is Quil Ateara. It's nice to meet you."

Nearly groaning at Quil's enthusiasm, Spencer furrows his eyebrows at the newfound company. "Why are you here? Are you selling Boy-scout cookies?"

"N-no, sir," the Ateara boy clears his throat, placing his hands behind his back in disappointment. This isn't going quite the way he planned, which proved to be an all-night function. "I actually met your daughter yesterday, and I was hoping to see her again."

Oakley Torine had mentioned no such occurrence to her father after escaping the rain, nor had she acknowledged his presence when he placed a boxed pizza upon the granite countertop. But before he has the opportunity to dismiss the teenager, his daughter is joining him in the parlor. Tightening her satin robe, Oakley glances over the shoulder of her father. "Quil? What are you doing here?"

Spencer is gone before another word can fall from Oakley's lips like fresh molasses. But she doesn't falter in her place, staring at Quil through her dark lashes and entirely forgetting that she had just woken from a terror-infected slumber. Her waves have turned to frizzy tangles and tear streaks stain her tanned skin like dye on fabric.

Though his frown fades in perturbation for his imprint, he quickly composes himself with a grin. "Could I take you out today? With the permission of your parents, of course." He feels as though the sun is shining with more effervescence than before, or perhaps Oakley is brightening the world around him. Whatever the cause, he is alive with a warmth that he never wants to lose.

The twin had read about situations such as these many times before; in fact, there were several novels placed upon her nightstand that mentioned this very moment. Perhaps she — like the many characters in books that didn't have enough pages for a happily ever after — had somehow found the right person at the wrong point in time. Because as she tries to deny the pain that grips her heart within scolding hands, Oakley is cognizant of the simple fact that this can never be real. She is not meant to come across a kind boy with a gentle smile and warm arms that would willingly embrace her. She is doomed to forever prosper in what could have been . . . perhaps in another life, it would have worked. Perhaps if her family was still here, she would have flourished by his side.

Perhaps.

"I understand that you aren't in the most ideal of positions to accept my offer," he breathes, his words smooth like melted chocolate. "The truth is that I haven't been able to get you out of my head since I found you on the pier."

Alternative to turning her back like her conscious demands, Oakley's feet are firmly planted. "Why did you stay, even after I showed indifference?"

Taken aback that she had spoken directly to him without any sign of immediate contrition, Quil marvels at her melodic vocalization. "There was a beautiful girl at the beach, and though I spent the majority of my leisure time at the waterside, I had never seen her there before. The rain was pouring, and yet she wore no shoes and carried no jacket. Her feet were in the water, and she was crying as if she had done it every day. I remember a time when I was as lonely as that girl," he hesitates, finding that her countenance is unchanging. "I saw her, and something inside of me cracked wide open. I didn't want her to be lonely anymore."

And then Oakley smiles as if he is the only remaining soul that can heal her heart, and Quil looks at her as if her smile is the only thing that could possibly matter.

"Could I have a moment to change my clothing?" The girl's chest decides before her mind can refuse, and suddenly she is buried within her own choices without any option but to suffocate.

This response was unexpected by Quil, and yet he doesn't falter for another second as he swallows his own over-excitement. "Of course, take as long as you need."

As she closes the door and quickly resigns to her cluttered wardrobe, he realizes that he meant nothing less than what he had said. The boy would wait for her forever, if that was the time she required. Now his hands are sweating, and he hurriedly wipes his palms against the fabric of his shorts — what if she wants to hold his hand? Quil's heart nearly falls from his chest and tumbles to the damp soil below his tarnished sneakers. He frantically tries to calm himself, all the while enduring the anxiousness that his ancestors knowingly placed upon his shoulders. He needs to continue as the boy she met the night before without any discrepancies, because any skepticism will make her aware of his altered demeanor.

Oakley doesn't find the necessity in makeup, nor does she take the effort-driven time to pick out an outfit to stun those that pass by her. Instead, she chooses a pair of comfortable shorts and a black polo that has a nearly invisible stain on the hemline, uncaring of the way she would be presenting herself to the boy who just couldn't seem to stay away. As she begins to braid her sienna waves, Graham appears by her side, peering past the curtains with peculiarity.

"I presumed you would turn him down without a second thought," he hums under his breath, pleased with her change in heart. "Maybe you are finding a way back to yourself, the way you were before."

"And maybe I can't bear to spend another aching moment within this house," she counters, finishing her hair with a thin band.

"No matter the motivation, you chose to accompany him. This is an opportunity to realize that the world has been waiting for you," Graham smiles, taking her arm, "and though you haven't noticed it yet, you will. Deep down, you know you've been waiting for it, too."

Placing a chaste kiss on his cheek and grinning at his unwavering incentives, Oakley slides a few wadded-up ten dollar bills from her allowance into her ripped pocket. "Until I return."

Quil is attentive as the girl reveals herself, stepping from the foyer with the same expressionless features as she held during their first encounter. But he only appreciates that he made her smile once for the day — if that was all he would receive for the upcoming hours, the accomplishment would still be his to treasure. Her emotions have since disappeared,  and her tone is dull as she descends the two stairs out from the portico, and plants her feet in the vegetation.

"You look beautiful," Quil admires her natural beauty, all of his previous trepidation softening like a marshmallow over an open bonfire. But Oakley only gives him a nod of recognition, careful to conceal her feelings — much like the box of letters she wrote that are shielded from the weathering of the world by a desiccating moor. "Is there any particular place you'd like to go?"

"I don't have many preferences," Oakley is quiet, maintaining her reserved personality as the boy leads her to his vehicle, "but the pumpkin patch is nice."

"That sounds perfect," he stares at her, a grin forming on his full lips. "When I was a kid, my parents made a trip with me every year — the bakery for breakfast, then milkshakes at the pumpkin patch. Afterwards, we would carve them and bake sugar cookies shaped like ghosts."

Hearing the elation that lies on his tongue when he speaks of his childhood brings out the dimples in Oakley's cheeks. Her beaming, however, isn't refrained this time. "Perhaps we should make the trip then, to save your tradition. If you would be okay with adjusting the rules of conventional company, of course."

"You would do that for me?" Quil's lips part, silence embracing the two after his question, like a fleece blanket draped upon strangers under a snowy sky.

"I couldn't turn down a tradition and disappoint your parents," she chimes, sliding into the peeling leather of the passenger seat as Quil opens the door for her. The truck is rusting with age, the white paint scraped away in patches from the boy's many navigation inconveniences. But, to his relief, she doesn't mind; with each passing second, he falls further into the abyss that is Oakley Torine and the predilection of her unobtrusive soul. Her heart, unlike that of many girls that he has met before, is not worn upon her sleeve like a trophy.

As Quil buckles and secures his seatbelt, his eyes find hers. "Are you ready for one of the greatest days of your existence?"

"Those are high standards, Quil," she responds flatly, narrowing her eyes. "Are you sure you can manage to uphold them?"

He flashes his teeth in a smile that soothes Oakley's nerves about containing her own emotions, before placing the key into the ignition. "Of course I can, I am one of the most entertaining people you will ever meet. But I request, in return for our gratifying day, that you tell me some things about yourself."

The twin's throat nearly closes, and suddenly she is unable to find her own words — has this what her life has become? Starting over with strangers who want nothing other than to grow close with her, with people who never knew her family before it was torn apart. As she looks to Quil, his expectant eyes on the gravel road that will lead them away from her home, she wonders what he thinks of her. Does he see a book without pages? Oakley decides on an austere answer for his previous question. "My favorite color is orange."

He hums to himself, breathing in the morning air that rushes through the windows, swirls for a delicate moment, then leaves them without a proper goodbye. "What else?"

Biting the inside of her cheek, she thinks of another simple reciprocation. "I take preference to the rain."

"Go on," he encourages, gesturing for her to continue with the hand that isn't placed firmly on the steering wheel.

Sighing, she sinks further into the ripped material of the seat, and does as he supplicates. "Father put a layer of tin on the roof when I was a child. Since nightmares have the tendency to wake me up, I listen to the rain for comfort. There's something about the sound that sings me to sleep." Glancing to Quil, Oakley finds that his eyes are already locked, ever so gently, on her. She chuckles, shaking her head, "I apologize if that was too much, disclosing isn't a habit of mine."

"No, no, no," he is quick to defend her newfound details, with a grin of reassurance, "it wasn't too much. It was perfect."

If only they could have stayed in this moment, staring at one another, before averting their attention to the remaining world beyond them that promised to never leave. Oakley rests her head against the scratched trim, closing her eyes. Her cheeks are alight with a natural blush, and Quil notices freckles that dot her button nose that he hadn't noticed before. Her hair, though desisted by a band, follows the circulating breeze, and her fingers tap the skin on her thigh to the beat of an eighties rock song that plays softly on the radio.

This, Quil Ateara thinks to himself, is what a piece of forever feels like.

❝ hands down, i would die for
these two, all cap. anyway, i love
this chapter, it's gonna be my fav.
also, is anyone reading this atm?
or am i just talking to myself? lol ❞