The morning began with clouds low and heavy, casting a cool gray hush over Rabbit Island. The bonfire from the night before had left behind little more than soft embers and the kind of silence that followed moments too good to last.

Inside the lodge, the group huddled around a half-played board game on the living room floor. Ren was animated, narrating his moves like a professional sports commentator. Livi leaned against Sora’s shoulder, barely paying attention. Mina flicked through her phone between turns, and Hikari smiled whenever someone made a joke.

Dylan sat off to the side on the couch.

He held a cup of tea he hadn’t sipped in twenty minutes, the steam long gone. He laughed when he was supposed to. Nodded when Livi caught his eye. But every sound in the room felt like it was happening in a different layer of reality. He was present, but only in the way a ghost is present in an old photograph.

He glanced at Hikari once. She wasn’t looking.

—

After lunch, the group split up. Ren and Sora went to explore the nearby trail. Livi and Hikari wandered toward the open beach, their sandals dangling from their fingers as they walked barefoot on the sand.

Dylan slipped away unnoticed, climbing a trail toward a mossy ridge overlooking the southern cliffs. His sketchbook was in his lap, but he wasn’t drawing. Just lines. Crosshatches. Nothing that meant anything.

A few minutes later, Mina approached from behind and quietly sat beside him.

They didn’t speak right away. The wind filled the space between them.

“You do this often?” she asked finally, voice quiet but not accusing.

“What?” Dylan said, not turning.

“Disappear in plain sight.”

He exhaled through his nose, a near-laugh. “I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

Mina looked out at the cliffs. “That’s the thing about being the one who drifts. You start to notice the signs in other people too.”

Dylan looked at her now. She wasn’t smirking. There was no sarcasm. Just honesty.

“I used to think I was just bad at keeping friends,” she continued. “Like I was too weird or too much. But I think… some of us are just always bracing for the moment it ends.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s what it feels like. Like I’ve already started preparing myself to let go.”

“Why?”

He paused. “Because I’m afraid if I hold on too tightly, I’ll ruin it. If I confess how I feel—if I break the balance—I’ll lose not just her, but everything.”

Mina sat back on her palms, head tilted toward the overcast sky.

“You like her,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.”

“You think she doesn’t know?”

“She might,” he admitted. “But maybe it’s easier to pretend we’re just close friends. Because at least that way… I’m still allowed to be near her.”

Mina nodded slowly. “I’ve been the one who left too many friend groups without saying goodbye. I just faded. And I kept telling myself no one noticed. But deep down, I wanted someone to stop me. Just once.”

Dylan’s voice caught in his throat. “And no one did?”

She smiled faintly. “Not until now.”

They sat together, watching the sea brush up against the cliffs like it didn’t know how to stop reaching for the shore. A rabbit hopped nearby, sniffed the grass, then stilled.

“I don’t want to disappear,” Dylan said finally.

Mina looked at him. “Then don’t. Even if you’re scared.”

—

Down on the beach, Hikari sat beside Livi, arms wrapped around her knees, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

“He’s still avoiding me,” she said quietly.

Livi glanced at her. “I know.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Livi said gently. “He’s just figuring something out. But that doesn’t mean he’s gone.”

Hikari nodded slowly, though her heart felt heavier than the words could lift.

—

Back up on the cliffs, Dylan and Mina sat in silence, neither moving, both letting the wind carry the weight of the things they weren’t quite ready to say to anyone else. They didn’t fix anything that day. But they stopped pretending it was fine. Sometimes, that was the bravest thing either of them could do.

Dylan looks up to the sky and closes his eyes so he takes the time to go back to memory lane.