The steady scrape continues. I glance at Dane, watching the way he leans over the spear as he works. His dark hair falls across his forehead, and he brushes it back with his wrist before focusing on the blade again.
He looks completely self-contained. Capable. Like someone who could stay out here forever and never need anything from anyone.
A thought has been circling in my head for weeks now, showing up no matter how hard I try to ignore it: Dane would be happier if it were just him.
At first, it felt like something I could brush off, a passing thought that didn’t mean anything. But lately, it’s harder to dismiss.
He doesn’t need me for survival. He never did. And he definitely never wanted me here in the first place. He’s been very clear about that.
The realization stings, but there’s a strange clarity in it too. Because the truth is, the island is big—much bigger than the small part of it we’ve claimed as ours all these years.
There are freshwater streams in the jungle. Coconut groves on the far side. Whole stretches of beach we barely go near anymore.
We don’t actually have to live together.
I spent years watching Ryan—and now Dane—survive out here. I know how he builds shelter, sets traps, finds water even when the dry season drags on.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped needing things explained to me. I learned by watching.
And now the truth settles into place. I could survive on my own. Not because I’ve become stronger, but because I was always paying attention, learning from him and Ryan.
My gaze drifts back to Dane. He still hasn’t looked up, all his focus on the spear as he sharpens it.
The decision that’s been forming in the back of my mind locks into place. With me gone, he’ll have this side of the island to himself. The way he always wanted.
I press my hands into the sand and push myself to my feet, brushing the grit from my palms. For a moment, the scraping stops, and I feel his attention shift toward me. Then the sound starts again.
Inside the shelter, I start gathering what I need—just the essentials, a few personal things.
I pause, looking around and taking it in. This has been my home for eight years. And I won’t be sleeping here tonight. Leaving it doesn’t feel real yet.
I crouch near the back wall and pull a bag from its hook, the strap worn soft from years of use.
Everything we have is worn.
I don’t need much. That’s the strange thing about living out here. After enough time, you realize how little it actually takes to keep going.
The knife I keep beside my pallet is coming with me. It’s one of the few things I’m not leaving behind.
I slip it into the bag.
Next, I grab a couple of plastic water bottles and tuck them in beside it. A short coil of cord. The length of rope I braided from palm fibers. A few extra clothes and shoes.
I hold the bag open, looking down at what I’ve packed.
There are other things I could take, but I leave them where they are for now. I’ll return later for more supplies.
Everything I’ve chosen fits easily inside. The bag is light for something that holds my entire future.
Outside, the scraping stops, and Dane’s voice drifts in. “What are you doing in there?”
I step out of the shelter with the bag slung over my shoulder. His gaze lifts—first to the bag, then to me.
“I’m going to move.”
For a second, he just stares. Then his brow pulls together, confusion replacing the indifference that had been there before. “Move where?”
I adjust the strap on my shoulder. “I don’t have a particular spot picked out yet.”
