The Edge of the Dock The dock creaked beneath them — a slow, tired breath from the wooden boards stretching into the lake’s stillness. Everything was quiet. Not peaceful, though. Too quiet. Like someone had hit pause. Like something was waiting. He sat beside her, elbows on his knees, absently tossing pebbles into the water. She didn’t speak. Not at first. Just stared, not at the lake or the trees or even the sky — but into something past it all. Something she couldn’t name. “You good?” he asked, gently. The kind of gentle reserved for breakable things. She didn’t answer. Her fingers twitched. Then her knee bounced. Her hands clenched and unclenched like they had a mind of their own. Her breath hitched, shallow and erratic. Then she turned to him sharply — eyes wide, pupils blown. “This—” she whispered, then louder, “This doesn’t feel real.” He frowned. “What doesn’t?” “All of it.” Her voice trembled with something wild. “You. This lake. The birds. Me. It’s like a set. Like someone built this whole thing just to see what I’d do. Like I’m the joke and everyone else is in on it.” “You’re just tired—” “No,” she snapped, standing fast, almost stumbling into the water. “You don’t get it. They think they know me. But they don’t. They think I’m just some girl sitting on a dock, but what if I’m not doing what they think I’m doing?” Her voice rose with every word, pitch climbing toward panic.“You don’t get to touch me!” she shouted when he took a step. “Not if you're part of it. Not if you’re one of them.” She spun, pacing, frantic. “Maybe none of this is happening. Maybe I never left that room. Maybe I never even existed.” And then she laughed — a sharp, brittle sound, too loud in the quiet. Not joy. Not madness. Just... collapse. He stepped forward, heart thudding, every step a risk. “Ena, please,” he whispered, hands half-raised. “Just talk to me. Don’t jump. You’re my best friend. We—We can get through this. I promise. I’ll be right by your side, okay? I’m right here. It’s gonna be okay.” His words came fast, tangled and trembling. His chest heaved. He was crying, barely realizing it. Breath caught in his throat like a noose. Panic sinking its claws into his lungs. “I’m real,” he said again, softer now. “I’m your friend.” She looked at him like he’d just told her the sky was green. “Friend,” she repeated. “You say that like it means something. Like it’s a spell that’ll fix this.” The look in her eyes scared him. It hurt. “You were,” she said. “Before they got to you.” He froze. She backed up, inching closer to the edge of the dock. Her hands twitched. Her eyes flicked toward the trees. “There’s something watching,” she hissed. “Behind the trees. Behind your eyes.” “Ena, don’t—” he stepped forward. “Don’t come closer!” she screamed. “If you do, I’ll jump. And don’t you dare try to stop me.” Thunder rolled overhead. The air was thick, electric. Like even the storm was holding its breath. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered. “I just want out. The noise. The watching. The wrongness.” He was breaking — heart first. “You’re not alone,” he begged. “Please.” She stared at him, her voice small. “If none of this is real… what am I even staying for?” He didn’t answer with words. He stepped toward her — slow, trembling, arms wide. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not supposed to cry,” she said, her voice shaking. “You’re the anchor. If you break… what the hell am I supposed to hold on to?” His breath hitched. He reached out. “Ena,” he said. “If this is a story… let’s write the next part together.” Her gaze dropped to his hand. Real. Human. Imperfect. Not an actor. Not a monster. Just him. Something flickered in her eyes. And then — her knees buckled. He caught her before she fell, arms around her, holding her like something sacred. She clung to him like she was afraid she’d fall through him. And he held her like she was the only thing left that mattered. The rain started then — quiet at first. Then stronger. It soaked them through, heavy and cold. But they didn’t move. “Do you think it ever goes away?” she asked, cutting the silence with a knife. He hesitated. “Sometimes it fades. Sometimes it doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean it wins.” Silence fell again. Honest. Unbearable. Necessary. Eventually, she looked up, eyes tired, but clearer. “Okay,” she whispered. “But if this is a story… I want to write the next part.” He nodded. And together, they stood — hands tangled, hearts sore, the storm overhead rolling on. Maybe the world was real. Maybe it wasn’t. But this moment was. And for now, it would be enough. -written by me, [4/24/25]
