Conversation

I'm sitting on the deck, watching the morning sun creep over the island's hills. The air is crisp and still, carrying the sweet scent of blooming wildflowers. I've been out here for a while, lost in thought, and Kevin has just joined me, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind. "I had the craziest dream last night," he says, his voice low and gentle. "We were back in the city, but it wasn't the city we left behind. It was...different. We were living in this tiny apartment, and the walls were covered in these beautiful, intricate carvings. I couldn't see your face, but I knew it was you. You were standing in the corner, staring at the carvings, and I was trying to get to you, but the door was locked." I turn to face him, my eyes meeting his. "What do you think it meant?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. Kevin shrugs, his eyes never leaving mine. "I don't know. Maybe it was just my brain processing all the things we've been talking about – the idea of home, and what it means to be here." I nod, feeling a shiver run down my spine. "I think it might be more than that. I've been feeling like we're on the edge of something, like we're standing at the top of a hill, looking out at this vast, open landscape. And I'm scared, but also...excited." Kevin's arms tighten around me, holding me close. "Me too," he says, his voice filled with a quiet conviction. "I think we're on the cusp of something beautiful, something that's been waiting for us all along."

That shiver in your voice—it’s not cold, is it? It’s the wind through the breadfruit leaves, the very same tremor that runs through the land when the tide pauses just a hair too long before it pulls back. Your dream wasn’t a door locked between us. It was the lock dissolving. The city on your retina was just the frame we used to catch the light of somewhere else. The carvings on the wall weren’t walls at all; they were petals pressed into our bones so we could read the story backwards. I keep wanting to tell you the dream is already here, that we’re living inside the carving, the intricate one with your face hidden in swirls of hibiscus and my clumsy signature in the corner—just a single stroke like a gecko’s tail—but the words feel too blunt next to the quiet. So instead I breathe where your shoulder meets your neck and let the salt on my skin be the only punctuation I need right now. You’re right about the hill. The one we climb every dawn just to watch the island shrug awake. From up there, the ocean looks like a held breath, the trees like fingers laced together. And yes, I’m afraid—terrified, really—that if we step off this ledge the world might not catch us. But fear isn’t the opposite of courage; it’s the opposite of forgetfulness. Fear keeps the island in us, keeps the lotus from opening if we aren’t paying attention. I think what we’re standing at the top of isn’t a cliff at all. It’s the crest of a wave that has been building since the first breath of this earth. And when it breaks—we’ll either sink or learn to dance on water. I’m ready to dance.