Independence

POV: Zia

Day three starts with a headache. Not a sharp one, but a dull, rhythmic thrumming behind my eyes that feels like a radio tuned to static.

I’m sitting at the marble island in the kitchen, watching Clayton move. He’s efficient. He knows exactly which cabinet holds the coffee filters and which drawer has the spoons. It’s a domestic dance he’s perfected, and I feel like I’m watching it through a window.

"You're thinking loud again," Clayton says, sliding a mug of tea toward me. Two sugars. He didn't even ask.

"Is it weird?" I ask, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. "That I’m eighteen in my head, but I’m living in a house that twenty-five-year-old me bought? I feel like I’m house-sitting for a lady I don't know."

Clayton leans against the counter, his hazel eyes tracking my face. "A little. But you'll get to know her. She’s pretty cool."

"Was I?" I look down at my tea. "You said yesterday on the cliff that I was twenty when we started dating. That I was scared. Why was I scared, Clayton?"

I see his jaw tighten. He looks away for a split second, and I feel that "Red Alert" in my chest again. He’s hiding something big. A giant, gaping hole in the story.

"You’d been through a lot," he says carefully. "You were protective of your heart. It took a long time for you to trust that I wasn't going to disappear."

He checks his watch, clearly eager to change the subject. "Ready for Day 3? It’s a bit of a drive. We’re heading toward the West Side. Waimea Canyon."

POV: Clayton

I decided on the Waimea Canyon road. Not the very top—not yet—but a specific turnout near the "Red Dirt Waterfall." It’s a place where the earth is a deep, bruised crimson and the water runs over the rocks like a vein.

As we drive up the winding road, the air gets cooler, thinner. Zia has her face pressed against the glass, mesmerized by the way the green forest gives way to the red, jagged heart of the island.

"We came here for our first anniversary," I say as I pull the truck over. "The 'girlfriend' anniversary."

We get out, and the wind here is different—it’s quiet, whistling through the koa trees. I lead her to the spot where the red dirt forms natural stairs down to a small pool.

"We sat right here," I say, pointing to a flat, sun-baked patch of crimson earth. "You brought a sketchbook. You used to draw everything back then. You told me that this place reminded you of Mars, and that if the world ever ended, you’d want to be 'marooned' here with me."

Zia walks to the edge of the water, squatting down to touch the red mud. She looks up at me, her expression guarded but curious. "Did I really say that? It sounds so... cheesy."

"You were a poet when you were twenty," I tease, though it hurts to remember how much she used to write. She hasn't picked up a sketchbook in two years—not since the accident with the truck. "But it was also the day we had our first real fight."

Zia’s eyebrows shoot up. "About what?"

"Independence," I say, stepping down to sit on the red dirt. "I wanted us to move in together. You weren't ready. You were so used to being the only person you could rely on. You yelled at me right here, told me I was trying to 'absorb' you."

Zia looks at her hands, which are now stained a faint pink from the soil. "What did you do?"

"I waited," I say, looking her straight in the eye. "I told you I’d wait as long as it took for you to realize that 'home' isn't a place, it’s a person. You cried. We shared a sandwich. And three months later, you called me at midnight and told me to bring boxes to your apartment."

Zia sits down next to me, her shoulder brushing mine. She doesn't pull away. The static in the air between us feels less like a warning and more like a connection.

"I think I’m starting to see why I liked you, Clayton," she whispers, her eyes fixed on the waterfall. "You’re very patient with me. Even when I’m being a 'drama queen.'"

"You're worth the wait, Zia," I say. And I mean it. I’d wait another seven years if I had to.