A new semester is starting today. Jael keeps getting assigned more laps than me, but she’d never say why, so I don’t ask.

I finish swimming and wait for her. She finishes and climbs the rusted rungs of the ladder, her thick hair falling in waves down her back.

At the top we shiver, staring out at the swells as they send spray over us. Her arms are curled around her knees.

“They stopped my medicine,” she says.

My mouth is open but nothing’s coming out.

“They want me out.” Her cheeks are wet. I don’t know if it’s from the spray or from tears.

We all get sold. Eventually. But that’s the key: eventually. Because, eventually makes it seem so indefinite, like maybe it won’t ever really happen. Like maybe we’d never really be separated. But now, eventually is being taken away.

I slide closer to her. We don’t touch, but it’s enough. I’ve said the only thing I know how to say in the only way I know how to say it.

Tonight, when I sleep, I dream of folding myself around her and never letting go.