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The trees begin to thin and, suddenly, we find ourselves on the edge of a cliff overlooking the whole world—or so it feels like.
“Oh, my God,” I breathe, watching the sun rise over the ocean. Below us the shore is rocky and dangerous, not the kind that’s safe for the public. The rays of the sun seem to stretch out infinitely, hugging the globe. I look up at him and find he’s watching me instead of the magic that’s happening in front of us. “How did you ever find this place?” I ask.
“My grandparents own all the land here; it’s on their property. I was out exploring one day and found it. I’ve never shared this spot with anyone, not even my brother,” he says significantly. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his board shorts. “I’ve spent a lot of time out here since we heard about T.J.” He shakes his head. “It’s the only place I feel truly at peace. Even the water isn’t entirely my safe place anymore, because it was something I shared with T.J. since we both liked to surf.”
“Why would you share this with me then?”
“Because when I look into your eyes, I see something I see in myself. Sadness, but a fighter too. But every fighter has weak moments, and when I feel weak I come here and let it out.”
“Let it out?”
He turns away from me, walks to the edge, throws his arm out and screams.
His scream echoes around us, and I swear some birds take flight somewhere behind me.
Suddenly, he stops and looks over his shoulder. “Come on, you do it too.”
I shake my head.nbsp;
“You’ll feel better if you let it out.”
He holds out a hand coaxingly to me. I shove my fear aside and place my hand in his. He pulls me forward gently, entwining our fingers.
I look down at our joined hands, surprised by how easily our hands fit together, his tan and freckled, mine pale and slender.
He bends his head and my breath stutters when I feel his lips touch the shell of my ear.
“Let it out, Willa. Let the world swallow your pain so you don’t have to.”
I look into his eyes, and in my gut, I trust him, I trust him to let my guard down, to allow myself to feel vulnerable.
Turning back to the water, I do what he says—I let it out.
I scream.
He screams.
And the world swallows it whole.
The sun has fully risen, and even though it’s early it’s already grown hot enough that I’ve taken off my plaid shirt and tied it around my waist.
We sit on the edge, our feet dangling beneath us.nbsp;
“What was it like?” he asks, breaking the quiet that surrounds us. “Being told your kidneys had failed?”
“Honestly?” I think for a moment how best to explain. “I didn’t think or feel anything at first. I was too sick, I guess. I mean, I knew that was bad, but I couldn’t comprehend how bad. I didn’t understand I was close to death because I didn’t feel sick. Yeah, I had symptoms, but they were weird so I brushed it off. I don’t think it hit me until almost a year later, when I couldn’t find a living donor match, just how bad the reality was. Dialysis sucks. It’s hard on the body, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It’s not natural. Your body isn’t meant to go through what it puts you through. It’s draining on your body and your mind. I started to give up hope then, for a while.” I swallow thickly, remembering how I felt then, how alone and desolate my thoughts were. A tear falls down my cheek and I brush it away. “There were a lot of nights I laid in bed, the anxiety suffocating me, the stress of the dialysis, school, a life I didn’t want to live, and I thought about ending it all. About how easy it would be, and peaceful compared to everything else. I didn’t fear death anymore, I still don’t. I snuck downstairs one night and emptied a palm full of my pills into my hand. I stared at them for a long time. I thought about my parents, my sister, my friends, and a future that at the moment seemed to hold no hope. But, suddenly, I saw a small glimpse of light, of what I might get if I could be patient enough to wait for a transplant, and all the things I could do after. But only if I was strong enough to fight to live.” I grow quiet and look at him for the first time since I started talking. I expect to see judgment on his face, but I’m shocked to find respect instead, and maybe awe. “I haven’t felt suicidal since that day,” I add. “And now, here I am, post-transplant.” I spread my arms wide. “That small light I saw then is a blazing sky today.”
He continues to stare at me some more, and then in a whisper so soft it’s almost as if he doesn’t mean to say it aloud at all, “You are amazing.”
“I’m nothing special,” I argue. “I’m just someone who got dealt a bad card, and I’m doing what I have to do. I don’t have a choice.”
“But you did, you just said it yourself. You thought about killing yourself. You could’ve ended it all, avoided it all, but you haven’t.”
“That doesn’t make me special.”
He blinks at me, his eyes scanning my features. “I think it does.”
He stares at me so intensely I swear I can feel it all the way inside straight down to my core. I feel like I’m being x-rayed and he can see every good and bad thought I’ve ever had plainly laid out. But he doesn’t look afraid, in fact, he almost looks like he likes me more because of it.
