And all Luke has the power to do is wake up.

When Luke comes to, it's like his soul has been pushed back into his body. It feels wrong and mismatched as if his soul is attempting to find its home back into his skeleton. After what feels like centuries, Luke manages to fish himself out of this other world, soaking in a vat of his own sweat and clutching his sheets. He wonders the time of day as the dryness of his mouth drips down into his throat. Apparently, it had only been five hours. The weight of his exhaustion still latches onto him, but Luke could've sworn it was an eternity he was gone.

Luke has learned to take divine things with a grain of salt. It's a fickle thing; more-so, a rebellious teenage thing. Some days, he chucks out the thought that anything holy should mean anything to him. But Thalia's tree looms over those days; the shadow she cast snaps him out of it. And the roots of the gods' severity reach even deeper almost as if to scare the defiance back into him.

It lurks and waits for another day.

When the dream inevitably comes back, when Luke sleeps again for more than five hours, instead it's six, he tells himself it can't be a coincidence. He's quick. It comes close to catching lightning in a bottle, writing down everything he can remember in a ragged notebook at the bottom of his bedside table's drawer with a pencil practically curdling around his fingers. The quicker Luke writes, the faster he forgets. The more he pieces your face together, the more you seem to fade. The footprints left disappear just as swiftly as they are made. Luke is left with nothing but a feeling, and he can't trust that.

Ironically, it becomes the new reason why he cannot find rest. He slugs around camp like some sort of zombie. Eyes sunken, words slurred even as Luke attempt to harness some sort of energy for the younger campers. Annabeth would shove ambrosia down his throat just to quell this nimrodic behavior that has overtaken him. But Luke fears that any interference will rip him from you just like that. So, instead, he waits, and at night, he tosses and turns, waiting for sleep to wave over him like a calm ocean. Or to just take him like a riptide.

He waits, and when you finally decide to meet him, it's only you. You talk. You move. You tap his forehead. You seem to do everything. Even if Luke wanted to, he's stuck in place. There's nothing for him to do other than let you do whatever it is you want.

Then, you'll send him on his way, and he'll wake up. Luke will write everything he can remember down.

DREAM 1 Girl. Deep eyes. Touched my forehead.

DREAM 2 Same girl. She talked to me, but I couldn't understand. I think that made her mad.

DREAM 3 She just watched me. I think she was mocking me.

DREAM 4 She's talking again, but I can't hear anything.

DREAM 5 Cold fingr

They're choppy and strung together like most of his thoughts. Luke will come to realize the senselessness of his words. When he revisits the entries, not even five minutes later, he can't even decipher what he possibly meant at the time. Deep eyes? Cold fingr(s)? That's it?

At a certain point, fear begins to creep in like cracks in a brittle wall. The more he sees you, the more he gets used to you, the more he fears when you'll eventually leave. Just as you've reached his fingertips, something will sweep you away. It's happened before; it can happen again.

It's a twisting, bipolar knife that embeds in his stomach. The clearer you become, the more he can hear you, the grip on the handle is tightened. When Luke feels his throat begin to gain the courage to response, the blade writhes. The threat feels imminent. It's nearly enough for Luke to force himself to stay up on those nights where he's beginning to lose his dark circles. It's nearly enough. Luke pushes those thoughts all the way down to tartarus the moment the sun sinks.

The eighth dream comes after two nights of silence. He thinks you're trying to bait him, but ultimately, whatever Luke thinks may be aimless attempts to grapple onto some sense of a person. He wonders that sometimes. If it were even your face he sees, or just a figment of his imagination to help digest his psychosis better.

No, the eighth dream confirms you are real.

You speak to him; you always do. This time Luke speaks back.

You're making fun of him, fingers floating around the mess of his hair. Somehow, even in this dreamworld, he has bedhead.

"It has a mind of it's own," he rasps.

You laugh. "So, he speaks."

"I've been trying," he affirms. The words are detached, almost as if he still can't believe the syllables are leaving his mouth.

You appear to like his answer. "Guess eighth times the charm," you smile.

You've been keeping track. Just like him.

He blinks.

"So-" Luke's mouth is suddenly dry. His mind, for whatever reason, zeroes in on the icky feeling of his tongue touching the roof of his mouth that he loses his thought. He swallows coarsely before trying again, "Sorry, it took so long."

Your dimly-lit gaze glances down. The soft ends of your lashes hide your smile. "Don't be," you reassure, quick to shake your head, "I like the sound of my own voice."

Luke just stares at you. "I like the sound of your voice too."

You don't seem to like that. As if Luke just spat a spitwad at you, you shift back. Your brows furrow and your nose crinkles; a slow cringe melting onto your face. It contrasts with your upturned lips, but still, Luke can tell that was not the right thing to say.

"Slow down there," you say. Luke fears he might just have to settle for swallowing his tongue, but the way you cough it out is still light and airy. He can work with that.

"Sorry," he sheepishly chuckles.

"Um," you clear your throat, "are you sleeping any better?"

The way she said, you'd almost think Luke had confided in her in the over world about his insomniac problems.

"Yeah, yeah," he hurriedly nods, licking his lips, "I hit a record breaking 6 hours and 37 minutes the other night."

You gasp. "Wow, a real milestone."

Luke shrugs, shedding that layer of timidness he had before. "What can I say? I reach for the skies."

Your right brow quirks up at his odd phrasing. "Shoot for the stars," you correct.

It seems to fly over his head. He nods, "Yeah, that too."

You laugh. Like really laugh. 

It shows all your pearly teeth, and your cheeks lift to meet your eyes in a way that tells him you must've really enjoyed whatever he just did. Luke finds himself oddly chuckling along with you. 

Dumbly, he questions, "What are you doing here?"

"What? You don't wanna see me?"

"No! No-- I," he stops himself before he can make a bigger fool out of himself. You giggle at how he trips over his own words, and Luke has to remind himself to take a breath before starting again, "I just mean how are you here? I don't understand."

Your features contort. "What is there to understand?"

"I just wanna know how this all works," Luke supplies, "Like are you even real?"

A teasing smile begins to glow on your face. "Maybe," you shrug, your cheek meeting your shoulder, "It's more fun this way if you don't know."

Luke passes you a scrutinizing eye that holds no weight. "For me or for you?"

You choose not to answer. Instead, you begin to ponder out loud, rolling your eyes to the supposedly sky. "It's not completely odd, isn't it, son of Hermes? To have someone visit you in your dreams in a world like this?"

Luke latches onto the identifier. "See? You know more about me than I do you," he remarks, "How is that fair?"

You mull it over with a taunting finger poking at your lips. "Guess it isn't."

"So?" A newfound surge of energy pulses through Luke's word as he urges you to go on. "Tell me about yourself. Like—" Luke waves his hands around in a grand gesture— "anything."

Your face grows stony, struck with hesitance. Luke can tell you're struggling on what to give up. Whatever reaches the tip of your tongue is immediately scrapped. It seems you're attempting to find the best answer that satiates Luke while fitting in the tight parameters you've set yourself. Since you don't seem big on widening them anytime soon either, Luke decides that's fine. He'll take what he can get.

"I have a sister," is what you settle on.

Luke smiles at that. "Me, too. How old is she?"

"Ten," you respond with a laugh, "but she tries to act older."

"Yeah, mine too," Luke eagerly nods, "but sometimes I think she actually is older."

The familiarity that sleeps into his speech has you leaning forward. You ask him, "What's her name?"

"Annabeth," he clarified, "Yours?"

"Maya," you smile.

Luke takes it in. He considers it thoroughly, nodding through each letter, each syllable. He suddenly twists his head closer to you. "And what's your name?" He questions out of the blue.

It's such a terrible segue, but you decide to tell him anyway.

He repeats it. Then, he repeats it again slowly, and then again faster. You decide to defy the laws of the dreamland to shove at him. "Don't wear it out," you warn him.

Luke's hand worms its way to the spot you pushed him. He massages at the place of fleeting warmth while his other hand raises in mock surrender. "I'm starting to learn more and more. You won't be able to one up me soon." 

Luke certainly has no trouble proving your earlier point of being unable to handle losing. You led it slide because he just seems so happy with himself. 

"So, do you know anything else about me?" Luke coaxed, "Or do you already know everything because you're technically in my head right now." He's quick to clamp his hands over the sides of his head as if it'll provide some sort of protection. 

You guffaw, head falling back momentarily. "I know a fair amount," you verify, "and not because I'm in your head."

"Then how?" He challenged furthered, inching closer to you as he awaited your answer.

That slight beat between your answer tells Luke he's about to hit gold. Your eyes glance upward in an attempt to find an answer. "People talk," you answer in one large breath. 

"People talk," Luke echoes. As a lightbulb appears over his head, he snaps a finger in your direction. "So, you're a camper?" He deduces

You shrug. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

"Hm," Luke nodded, "Interesting."

"Interesting?" You imitated.

Luke nods once more. His lips stretch into a fine smile that thinly veils what he's truly thinking. It's practically bursting at the seams though, and you just want to poke at it until he tells you what he's truly thinking. Luke doesn't take long to decide he'll spare you the trouble. 

"That means I can find you." Luke insists.

"Yeah, if you're a creep like that," You snort.

"Don't try to distract me." Luke wags a finger in your face, appearing suddenly very determined. He declares, "Now I know you're real, and I'm not going crazy."

You hum, unsure. "I don't know. Could be both. Could still be the latter."

"It doesn't feel like that time yet, and," he shrugs simply, "You feel pretty real to me."

Luke thinks it's a pretty genius answer. Actually, he'd pat himself on the back if it didn't make him look like such a fool. He might just do it any way.

Yet, you don't answer. Instead, you look off into the seemingly endless distance.

Whatever you are fixated on takes all your attention away from him. When Luke takes a look on his own, he sees nothing but the endless abyss, shrouded by light. But you? You're squinting to get a better look, cocking your head to the side like something— someone is calling to you.

"What is it?" Luke inquiries softly, hovering a hand over your shoulder to gain your attention back. "Are you okay?"

You shake your head, either to answer his question or snap yourself out of your haze. Pursing your lips, your gaze turns to the floor only momentarily before flitting back to him with an apologetic glint. You glance at your wrist, but there's no watch there. "Nearly seven hours, Luke. Looks like a new record."

He stalls. It's the first time you've said his name so clearly. But—

Luke's head snaps up to meet your eyes. "Wait, what—?"

He's suddenly flung back. It's reminiscent of the first night he met you. There's a burning splotch in the center of his forehead, but it's so fast he didn't even register you moving to tap him there. When his eyes shoot open, the first thing he feels is the biting ache that blooms at the center of his back. His fingers are turning white from how hard he's clutching onto the sheets. It's become his anchor; he wonders if he's held on this tight the whole time he's been talking to you. 

Eventually, as his mind comes back to him, all his thoughts circle back to you. You sent him back. 

Luke wretches himself up, itching to find a pencil or a pen. In the darkness, he has to settle for his sister's eyeliner pencil. He doesn't write down what happened in the dream. He knows exactly what happened. He thinks, instead, he needs to write down some questions he could ask to get to know you better.

The next time he sees you, it's four nights later, and he hasn't slept a wink since.

The next time Luke sees you, he comes with his forehead covered.

He practically glues his hand to his forehead, covering the whole thing up. No matter if it creates an ache in his bicep, it's staying there. 

When you see him, you observe him as if he's crazy. You scoff, "What are you doing?"

At your nonchalance, his grip only tightens, an internal vow circulating his head to keep it here the whole night. "Don't send me back," he answers.

You exhale. "I have to," you exclaim.

Luke's eyebrows knit together. It's the most cryptic answer you could possibly give him. He doesn't really know what he expects, but it's disappointing nonetheless. "Why?"

You don't say anything. You seem gung ho on telling him nothing, actually. You pinch your lips together. It would've just been easier to sew them together. You readjust your gaze to meet the floor because that seems to be easier than facing Luke. His own gaze zeroes in on your fidgeting hands; the way your fingers twitch before you eventually clench your fists together in a sad attempt to stop them.

Luke sighs, "I don't like when you do it."

"I'm sorry," you concede earnestly, "I really don't have a choice."

He wants to ask why again. He wants to ask why for everything, but he isn't five anymore, and it doesn't seem that you're gonna answer him with anything straight. Instead, Luke settles with a controlled sigh. "It's fine... just a little warning next time before you do it... please?"

It provides with some sort of relief. You nod entirely. "I can do that."

"Okay," he murmurs under his breath before taking a seat next to you.

Luke doesn't have a clock, but he counts the minutes as best he can. The faster time feels, he's sure the more time has passed and the more he has managed to sleep. Somehow, you gage the time without even needing any help. Still, even at this slight disadvantage, Luke makes it his mission to keep inching that minute hand closer and closer to breaking the record each time he sees you. 

It also becomes his personal mission to dig deeper into your life. If you say you're real, if he feels it, he's needs to be convinced every night. You've let it slip you're a camper, and even if he hasn't admitted just yet, he looks for you daily. He looks for you during training, listens for your voice during campfire song time, and even if Annabeth promises to castrate him during Capture the Flag because his head is out of the game, he still takes the chance to search for you through the masses (even with Clarisse hot on his tail).

His journal also begins to evolve. Rather than being sporadic findings of his dreams to keep the idea of you intact or mere conversation starters that end up being scrapped, it's now filled with everything you've decided to give him. You do drop crumbs. Maybe because you feel bad for him; maybe because he's just that pitiful. He learns your favorite color (blue like the camp's lake in the afternoon), your age (only a year younger than him) but not your cabin. No, Luke hasn't managed to wrangle that bit of information out of you just yet. 

Certain things do specifically stick however. Such as,

   1. You're a camper, and you have a sister.

But that's a given at this point.

   2. You're very particular about the strawberries you pick.

Knowing that you're a camper just like him opens a lot of doors. You don't seem as hesitant telling him things that you don't think will reveal too much. 

One night, you're a little late. To be honest, it had him sweating a bit. Ever since, you promised to be a little more gentle with letting him return to the over world, you've been pulling at him earlier, and he's been expecting you earlier as well. He'll even try cut his counselor duties short to get into bed faster. Kind of terrible, but nothing Camp Half Blood can't handle.

That night you change the scenery. It's a recent phenomenon. Previously, you had relied on these blank backdrops. A simple room, perhaps, something digestible. It does take Luke a second to readjust and shake away the silly feeling in the tip of his finger and the soles of his feet. But recently, you've curated scenes that you know will be familiar to the both of you. The campfire, the pavilion, or this time, the strawberry field Luke passed just today. It's lives up to the real thing. Actually, when Luke brushes his fingers against one of the bristly leaves of the strawberry bush, he has to shake himself out of a stupor. He has to remind himself this isn't real and continue on to where he can find you.

It's a maze to navigate, but eventually, he locates you in the center of it all, prudently examining said strawberries in front o fyou.

"This is new," he notes while settling beside you in the bushes. Luke's head is still reeling, attempting to catch up to his body as he takes in everything around him.

You don't respond right away. Your hands are far too preoccupied with inspecting the strawberries before you. Luke notices a small basket tucked away under some shrubs. It's barely filled, maybe only three or so strawberries in there. Belatedly, you puff out a peculiar hum before pondering out, "Do you like strawberries?"

Luke snorts as if the answer is obvious. His fingers prod at a berry. "Are you kidding me? I love them."

That answer seems to plead you because you begin to nod. You pluck the strawberry, tossing it into the basket. Luke's gaze trails from your right back to your face and finds that it is tortured with affliction. 

"You know who doesn't like them?" You scoff, and then swiftly answer, "My sister!"

"Huh," Luke replied, not quite following along but still present, "Why not?"

That's when you finally look to him. You lean in, expression twisted in frustration. "She doesn't like the seeds. It makes her think she's swallowing the guts of tiny people," you explain, "It weighs on her conscious."

Luke lets out a small 'ah'. "Yeah, I get that."

You go back to rearranging the few berries you have in your container, plucking one up to sit nicely in your palm. "She doesn't like them" you reiterate, "And yet—" You stop yourself short. You clench your hand into a fist. The muted squash infiltrates Luke's ears, and he jumps back as the seeds and juice squish out of the cracks of your fingers. 

Luke can't say anything. He really doesn't know what he could say in that moment. So, instead, he settles for glancing around mindlessly, searching for anything you could wipe your hand with. But, when you open your hand, it's clean. 

Luke's shoulders deflate. When his gaze returns to you, you've continued on as if nothing has happened. He takes that as his cue to do the same. "And yet...?"

His fingers halfheartedly find a strawberry, twisting at the top to eventually toss into the green bucket. However, you are quick to place a hand over his, shaking your head. "Not that one."

Luke's brows pinch together. "Why not this one?"

"It's not ripe enough," you reply.

Luke's lips flatten, and he gives you a look. "This is a dream."

You throw him a similar look. "Dreams mimic real life," you objected. 

Rolling his eyes, Luke concedes. "Okay," he drawls out, a grin relaxing over his face, "since you're such an expert, which one is the one then?"

Your fingers curl around the indents of his hand, covering his large one with your own. Gently, you begin to guide him over to the right before it lands on a plump, juicy one. The vivid red color beaming even in the dead of night. When you gage Luke's fingers meeting the soft skin of the fruit, you release him. 

"You have to pick the right one," you chastise.  

Then, you return to your own section. Until you realizing that Luke hasn't said anything or moved at all. You turn your gaze back to him to see he's stuck in place, like a statue. 

"Luke?"

It snaps him back to life. He clears his throat, forgetting all about the strawberry to scratch the back of his neck. "So, what about your sister?"

Luke doesn't know if he regrets asking you that because at the sudden change at topic, you groan so loud it might've just woken him up. "She doesn't like strawberries, and yet—! I pick a whole basket for dinner, and... and she just—"

"She just...?" Luke urges you to go on.

"She ate the whole thing!" You burst out.

Luke's head cocks to the side. "Why would she do that?"

"Act of revenge," you croak out, massaging a hand over your heart. You warily eye the newly plucked basket of strawberries.

The concern expression on Luke's face drops at a comedic speed before being replaced with a rather unconvinced one. With a quirked brow, he scoots in closer. "What did you do?"  

"I didn't do anything!" You begin to defend yourself, tilting your head away from Luke's scrutinizing stare. "She's just upset our dad visited me and not her. He doesn't come around much."

Which leads Luke to the third thing he knows about you.

   3. You actually like your father.

Although, the way you speak of him, he appears to be more of a memory rather than a substantial person. It's something he's heard before. Whether it be the frustrated words of a camper or the muted cries of a kid in his cabin he has to calm down, he's heard it all before. It leaves him wondering if your godly parent is your mother— if you are so fond of him. Maybe you're from Aphrodite's, maybe even Athena's.

A nervous sigh courses through him every time he even thinks along the lines of that question. He can't dwell on it too long or it will never come out. Luke says it quick, like ripping off a bandaid.

"Do you think," he would start off, "we could see each other? Like, in real life?"

He regrets it immediately. The way you freeze— it feels like he's practically pushed himself back ten steps. You shrugs as if you are puzzled by his question. "This is still real."

"Of course, it is," he reassures. He shifts closer to you, attempting to reach your gaze again as you begin to drift off somewhere. "But in a way where my feet don't feel funny all the time, and you can show me how to pick the perfect strawberry."

You know you could do that here, but it wouldn't be real. You hate using that word. You hate that thin line that separate your meaning and his. Because he's right. No matter how hard you push for this to be 'real', it's not the same as feeling the 'real' sun shine on your face, giving you a sunburn. It's not the same as the feel of 'real' strawberries bumping under your fingers, and the 'real' taste hitting your tongue. And it's not the same as the 'real' you meeting face to face with the real 'Luke'.

You're sure he feels the same. You just aren't sure if you're ready for that."

Luke doesn't know what makes you so unsure. If there's something greater holding you back, and if he did know, he'd reassure you there's nothing to be scared of.

You exhale. It makes Luke's heart drop. "Not just yet," you whisper.

Luke has to suck in a disappointed sigh by pursing his lips. It's tucked in deep within his stomach where he'll take it out in the morning where you can't see it. For now, he just dips his head down with a sunken nod. 

Luke chooses to take the leap of faith and believe in your 'not just yet'.

The nights end a little differently now. Now, every time he has to leave you, or you have to leave him, you whisper a quick little warning in the form of an apology. Rather then taking him by surprise, your fingers softly drift over his forehead in a small wait of his approval.

You only tap down when he says it's okay. 

It's a little easier to wake up now. 

[...]

Luke hears your name on a random Tuesday. It's after the fourteenth night you've visited him. A camper can't sleep. They frequent dreams of dying, and while Luke can't say it's shocking, the poor kid is only twelve.

"I just don't know what to do. Kid's waking up every hour, biting the skin off his nails," he found himself pondering to Clarisse one breakfast after Joshua came to him a second time. "What do you think?"

If it's a dilemma for Luke, it automatically will not be that for Clarisse. She beholds him with a sort of stupidity you save for little kids. With a lazy hand, she flicks it towards the directions of the cabins. And then, Clarisse says something. She says something he swears he hears every night. Like a string plucked on a lyre, the name strikes a chord deep within him.

"What did you just say?" His hand latches onto the Clarisse's shoulder to ground himself

She utters the name again, shrugging his hand off her. "Ring a bell?" When Luke doesn't answer, opting to stare at her dumbfounded, Clarisse rolls her eyes with a groan, "Take Junior to her in the infirmary. She'll help calm him down."

"Ho-how?"

"Dude," Clarisse scoffs. The way she practically gurgles it out tells Luke she's tired of this conversation. "I get that you aren't feeling well- or looking it either-, but get your head out of your ass. She's the daughter of Hypnos. Go. To. Her."

Clarisse spins around, stomping her boots through the mud before Luke can get another word in. Whether it was her intention to imprint the soles of her shoes with so much emphasis, it flicked up excess amount of soil was up for debate. Luke was still reeling from this newfound piece of information to care or debate the new heights of Clarisse's pettiness, however.

He says your name. "We should go see her."

You can't even get a word in as she endlessly praises you for something you haven't even done. You meet her rambling with your own, spouting out a jumble of 'no's' and 'of course not's!'

"I'm not dating any of them! Either of them! Anyone!" You silence her with what she deems as not very convincing.

Riko decides to get all up in your face with a scrutinizing look. You nervously twitch, hands up in order to create some distance and eyes switching back and forth from her to the water. Oh, you hope they don't look over her and find Riko interrogating you. You couldn't handle her teasing let alone the combined efforts of all three.

"Just because I can't read minds, like you can," she grumbles with a envy, "doesn't mean I can't see!"

"Don't you need contacts," You giggle, fingers tapping her forehead. Riko launches herself back with a gasp as if you had pushed her with all your might. She rubs her eyes with a groan, and her red eyes only intensify. Your giggles continue profusely.

"What I mean is, I'm not an idiot!"

"I never said that!" You shake your head with a worried expression.

"Oh, you're just not getting it!" Riko rakes her hands into her head with a fury. You hover a worried hand over her as she plays through her tantrum.

With a deep say, she calms herself, fluffing out her hair and fixing her bandana. Finally, Riko fixes her attention on you. You reach over to flatten the hair piece back to its original position. You smile at the design, sea turtles over a sea green background. She exchanged it just for this sunny day.

From the coastline, your name is called so loud you think everyone on this beach can hear it. First, it's Satoru, but as you turn to look it's him and Suguru combined. And then Shoko. "Stop being so lame and get in the water! So what if your hair gets wet!"

You wager that pretending you couldn't see them waving at you is no good. Pretending that you couldn't hear Satoru's enormous, shrieking voice....

They definitely won't believe you.

A part of you is frightened they'll come running up to you, tracking up so much wet sand and seaweed, you won't be able to dodge their attempt to drag you into the sea. They hardly understood why you decided to stay back with Riko in the first place.

"Why even wear a swimsuit if you aren't going to swim with us," Gojo had whined.

Before you could dive into the many different activities one could do at the beach, two cold, slender fingers snapped at the strap of your bikini.

"It's new," Geto hummed, and as you turned back to swiped at him, you realized he was moreso talking to Gojo rather than you. His fingers nudge the frilly material that pooled around your waste, eyes following the polka dot pattern before they coolly landed on you.

Gojo had let out an 'a-ha!' before readjusting his sunglasses in a pompous manner that made you want to strangle him. "Don't you want to see if your new purchase was worth it?"

There could've been hot steam erupting from your head with how much anger bubbled in your chest. The two boys before you would probably just roast some marshmallows on top of it.

Luckily, Riko acted as your savior and your trusted partner against the duo.

"Haven't you two ever heard of tanning!?" She rebuked. "Lounging! Relaxing and getting away from two very annoying boys that have nothing better to do!?"

Before Gojo and Riko could get into it, Shoko managed to distract the two by suggesting a race to the water. That allowed the you and Riko to finally set your towels down and listen to the sound of the waves, not the parroting of two sorcerers.

"Why don't you join them," you suggest to Riko.

At first, she says nothing. She gives you time to dissect that little smirk she gives you.

From the distance, Gojo fishes something out of the water before they can come get you. It's large and slimy and causes Shoko to scream.

It's almost like she's keeping a secret from you. It's not against your own will. You'll let her keep this little mischievous smile; she seems to be enjoying herself quite well. And against your better judgement, a soft smile graces you as you direct your attention onto the ocean where Satoru and Suguru chase Shoko around with a sea slug.

"Y'know, you can't depend on me like this."

"What do you mean?" You hum.

"I'm not gonna be here all the time to knock some sense into you."

To her, it's a joke. She tuts you like your mother. And there's an airy cruelness to it that makes you think when she says things like this, only she laughs. Her nonchalant attitude causes you grit your teeth and seal your lips shut. You don't want to ruin her fun as she decides to run back out to the sea and join your friends.

Riko is laughing like there's some tomorrow waiting for her, glancing back to urge you to follow.

It's only when she meets up with Suguru, Satoru, and Shoko, do you quickly wipe your eyes like she did previously.

Your chest burns in anger. Not towards Riko, not towards anyone but yourself. It doesn't help, and it doesn't stop the tears.

Satoru was right. You were such a crybaby.

But you couldn't help it.

To be forced to stew in the futility of the situation. How could you not feel weak?

You hoped they wouldn't notice your red eyes and stuffy nose.

Not long ago, you would've laughed with her out of courtesy because who are you to deny a dead girl's wish, but now it feels like the joke is all on you.

It doesn't matter in the end. You could make yourself sick every night thinking about the inevitable. You could have all the fun you wanted, but that doesn't stop that you know, and it doesn't stop the fact that you aren't stupid. Riko is right, and maybe you need her in spite of everything you've been warned against.

You sigh and open your eyes.

Satoru wrestling Suguru to the ocean ground. Shoko and Riko cheering on the side.

It's hard, but you try to enjoy the rest of the day.

Satoru runs up to you not long after, covered in sand and hair wet with salt. He has this gleam in his eyes you could easily pick from the crowd. He's singing your name, hands out like a vicious crab ready to pinch you. You shriek as you scramble to run away. He chases you all across the beach as you plead, saying you needed to make sure no one would steal everyone's things.

He just cackled like a mad man.

Eventually, you found yourself behind Suguru. Satoru was gaining on you, and the only think your brain could think of was to use Suguru as a barrier.

You clutched onto his arm, peeking your head out as a panting Satoru calm to a halt.

"Suguru," you plead, "Help me!"

The only one you could trust to match Satoru was Suguru.

You thought you found safe haven with Suguru. You thought.

But then he turned around with that same look Satoru held, and Satoru only began to laugh louder.

Suguru sighs your name. "Sorry about this."

They both pluck you up. Suguru takes your hands; Satoru your legs. They swing you up and down as the sounds of waves crashing against each other grows louder.

Shoko and Riko shout from some unclear distance. "Fight them!" They scream your name. "Fight!"

You squirm and squirm, begging for mercy, attempting to seduce them with any method.

"I'll get you your favorite snack! Favorite drink! I'll play for your meals! Please!"

This only causes them to swing you harder and faster until they start to count down.

"One," Satoru giggles.

"Two," Suguru continues.

"Three!"

The sun is beginning to set when the five you of you start making your way to a restaurant Riko wanted to try.

You're shivering, soaking wet and leaving a trail of ocean with every step you walk.

You lost your flip flops during the fight, so Suguru gives you his shoes. And your sunglasses are long gone, probably picked up by some fish or turtle. Satoru offers you his. He even lifts his large arms over your vision in order to cast some shade, but you only glare at him and walk faster, hoping to make him feel bad. But judging by the sound of your squeaking shoes and their snickers, you don't think so.