"You're moving?"

It's a Monday morning when the bells ring and my feet find their way to a stand, facing a handful of teary-eyed people.

There is a constant buzz in my ears, a subtle ringing; in comparison, every other noise seems distant and muffled.

I'm not crying. It's not that I'm not sad, but it feels as if all tears have already been shed.

It's a pity.

If there is one person deserving of my tears, it would be her. How stupid of me to have consumed all of them so quickly. But how could I have known?

"Thank you all for coming to celebrate my mother today. I truly appreciate it, and I know she would have as well. If there is only one word I could use to describe her..."

The words flow out of my mouth like they have plenty of times before. The buzzing gets a little louder with each sentence. I can feel my chest tightening gradually, as if trying to make up for the lack of any facial expression. As if my body is trying to prove to me that no matter how exhausted I am, I'm still suffering. Even if it doesn't seem like it.

I'm not very close with the few people sitting in front of me. They are my mother's friends, colleagues, and if I am not mistaken, even one ex-lover. But no one I have anything to do with, except Tristan.

He's sitting at the back, staring at the floor. I had asked him not to come. I told him that I didn't need him to, and yet he insisted. Maybe I would have done the same in his stead. After all, this is... what? My fourth funeral this year alone?

At some point, it started feeling like a curse, and the more it progresses, the worse it becomes. First, it was my grandfather. Then, my grandmother. My uncle was next, and after him, my aunts. I had hoped this fate would spare my parents, but of course, I was mistaken.

It took my father next, then my brother, and at last, my mom.

I know death is natural. I know that sooner or later it comes for anyone and everyone. But it had been so fast, so sudden, so methodical, that I can't help but assume it had nothing "natural" about it. Not when it came to my family.

And I am next in line.

With no more relatives surrounding me, how long will it take for death to knock at my door as well? Am I also doomed? Am I foolish to think I am the exception?

But maybe death could be better than this. My body is so consumed with grief that weirdly enough, I can almost no longer feel it. But it is there. And it's draining.

My life is falling into shambles right before my eyes. I can't bear to live alone in our house anymore. And as much as my boss is willing to understand my situation, my mental health hits rock bottom so often that the mere thought of coming into work has me spiraling.

All in all, even if it isn't quite yet so, it already feels like I'm homeless, jobless, and penniless. It is just a matter of time.

"How are you holding up?" An arm sneaks around my shoulders, resting on them and pulling me closer.

"That's a shit question."

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

"Yeah... I know." Tristan is looking down at the patch of dirt where they have just buried my mother. "She was really nice."

"She was. I guess it was her turn this time." I find myself kicking the pebbles nearby. I know he's concerned for me; I can see it in the cloudiness of his gaze and the ever-present wrinkle between his brows. Rightfully so. But it is still weird to be perceived as the one needing comfort, as someone that has always tried to provide it. It's suffocating. I hate it.

"You really believe it's some sort of curse?"

"How can I not? Have you ever seen anything like this happen?" I take a step back, looking him in the eye, searching for a sign that I'm not truly the crazy one. I'm not superstitious. Yet this whole ordeal is making me change my mind.

Tristan sighs, scratching the back of his neck. "Look, Ezra, I know this is odd, but it's not a curse. So stop thinking you will be next. You've managed to worry even me."

The thing is, Tristan doesn't understand. He can't possibly understand. We have been friends since we were in elementary school, and he is probably the one person left in this world to truly know me. But everything around me is starting to change.

Should I tell him?

He doesn't know about the dreams, about how vivid they are. About how scary and inviting the sea is. About how that man on the beach has been living in my thoughts, day and night. He doesn't know that they started right after the beginning of this tragedy that surrounds me. He doesn't know how much they've been plaguing me.

Should I just tell him?

Would he believe me? Or would he say that it's just my grief-stricken mind doing a number on me? Would he try to comfort me by saying dreams don't mean that much? Or would he help me understand them?

"Tristan, I..."

He looks at me, still slightly worried. I can't. Not yet.

"I'm... moving."

"What?! What do you mean you're moving? When? Where? All by yourself?" He grabs me by my shoulders, pushing me back a little. His eyes are so wide that for a second I find myself thinking they might just pop out of his head. "At least let me come with you!"

"No." I rest my hand on his, squeezing it lightly. "I need some time to collect my thoughts. Being in this place now is just... too much. I want a fresh start."

"But still... what about money? What about your job?" I look at him, a strained smirk lingering on my lips. He knows money is not the issue. He knows that I'm the only person all my family's money can go to.

I realize he's grasping at straws, and it does hurt to see him so overwhelmed with worry. I wish it was easier. I wish I could stay. I wish I wasn't spending all of my nights tossing and turning and waking up with my throat burning dry.

"It's okay. This will be good for me. And we will keep in tou—" Suddenly, he pulls me into an embrace, and I notice for the first time that he's shaking a little.

"I know you, Ezra, I can tell you've made up your mind. I get it. I wish you'd stay, but I understand. Please just tell me where you're going, and I will come to you if you ever need me."

I smile against his shoulder, enjoying the warmth he gives off. He might have grown taller and stronger than me, and he might look tough, but I can tell he's still the same kid that would cry whenever I got a scratch on my knee.

"It's a small town about two hours from here. It's called Saltwater."

***

"Ezra."

The wind seems to slap me in the face as I slowly regain consciousness. It's cold, too cold to move, and I can feel the sand rubbing against my back.

"Come back."

I open my eyes slowly, fear overcoming me like a hand crawling up my throat, clawing at the inside. I know where I am.

I sit up, every fiber of my body begging me not to do so, my bones shuddering as the freezing air pushes me, trying to keep me down. And when I finally manage to tilt my head up, everything around me seems to come to a stop.

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, pumping blood faster and faster and faster. I can hear the ringing coming back. The dull buzzing that has been driving me crazy. All of my body tightens as my veins begin to itch under my skin.

Usually, I would find myself at the edge of the beach, staring at the silhouette of the man. But this time it's different.

This time, I'm mere inches behind him. And I can tell he's aware of it.

I don't notice that I've stopped breathing. I don't notice that I'm shaking. I don't notice that my eyes have been stuck wide open for so long, tears have started forming in them. I don't notice the sand finding its way into my mouth, my lips cracked open.

I don't notice any of that, my mind too focused on the broad back of the man.

That is, until my vision begins turning black, and my head feeling dizzy.

Not now. I can't faint now. I can't pass away now. He's too close, the sea's too violent, the wind's too cold, this is too dangerous. I can't lose consciousness. I can't take my gaze off of him. I can't. And yet the air won't find its way into my lungs, no matter how hard I try.

I'm scared.

I'm scared.

I'll die.

"Come back, Ezra."