Dash

The lean-to is quiet, the cool night air wrapping around us as we step inside. I toss a few blankets onto the bed and turn, expecting Sage to be her usual lighthearted self, maybe laughing off the absurdity of it all. But instead, she’s quieter, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

“You good?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

“Fine,” she says, too quickly. She busies herself, pulling off her boots and setting them by the door, not meeting my gaze.

I raise an eyebrow, stepping closer. “You sure? You seem… off.”

Sage gives me a look, one of those soft, deflecting smiles she uses when she wants to avoid talking about something. “I’m fine, Dash. Really.” Her tone is light, but it’s that kind of forced cheerfulness I’ve come to recognize.

I don’t push her, but I don’t back off either, holding her gaze. “You’re good at saying you’re fine. Doesn’t mean I believe it.”

She tenses, her shoulders pulling back just a little. “Maybe that’s your problem, then.” Her words are gentle, almost teasing, but there’s a sharpness in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

I exhale, nodding. “Alright, if that’s how it is.” I move over to the bed, pulling back the blankets, trying to give her space. I know this routine—how she’ll put up her walls, even if she doesn’t mean to. I’ve seen her do it in camp so many times over the months I observed her. We climb into bed, and the silence stretches between us, a distance that feels both heavy and fragile.

After a few minutes, I find myself breaking the quiet. “You know… I was engaged once.” The words slip out before I can stop them. I hadn’t planned on saying it, but somehow it feels like the right moment.

Sage shifts beside me, curiosity flickering in her eyes as she turns to look at me. “You were?”

I nod, feeling the familiar ache settle in. “Yeah. Her name was Marie. We’d known each other since elementary school, part of the same small deaf community. She was… well, she was everything I thought I wanted.”

Sage’s gaze softens, and for the first time tonight, I feel her walls drop just a little, her attention fully on me.

“We were friends, mostly,” I continue. “But as we got older, it just sort of… happened. Everyone expected us to end up together. And for a while, I thought we would.” I pause, my fingers brushing over the edge of the blanket. “But Marie… she saw something I didn’t. She told me one day that we were more friends than anything else. Said she and I both deserved something deeper, something real. I fought her on it, tried to convince her she was wrong, but she stood firm. And she was right.” I shrug, as if to say, what can you do?

There’s a quiet understanding in Sage’s eyes, and I realize she’s really listening, not just waiting for me to finish.

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“Six months later, the bombings happened. I lost her and Allie in the same week.” I swallow, my voice rougher than I intend. “Allie had been telling me for years that Marie wasn’t the one for me. She loved Marie—don’t get me wrong—but she saw what I didn’t. I guess… I just didn’t want to start over.”

Sage’s hand reaches out, brushing against mine in the dark. “Dash… I’m sorry.”

The touch is small, but it grounds me, brings me back. I didn’t tell her this for pity, and I just barely hold back a wince as I nod, giving her a faint smile. “Anyway. That’s me.” I’m unsure what else to say.

There’s a silence that feels loaded with things unsaid. Then, quietly, she speaks.

“I was married,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Five years. His name was Grant. He died two years before the bombs.” She pauses, letting out a bitter laugh. “Stupid cancer.”

She doesn’t say more, and I don’t press her. I take her hand, holding it for a moment before letting go. It’s enough—for now.

I can’t help the questions that bombard my mind. What was Grant like? What was their marriage like? Does she still miss him? Of course, she does. Don’t be an idiot, man. I mentally shake myself and start to count backward from one hundred by sevens—something I overheard Sage telling someone else to do. It weirdly works. I resolve to wait until she decides she’s ready to share more.

And in the quiet that follows, I feel the distance between us narrow just a little, like we’ve both let each other in just enough to feel a little less alone.

Sage

The quiet settles around us like the night itself, thick and heavy. I feel Dash beside me, a solid warmth, his hand brushing mine for just a second before he pulls it away. The silence stretches out, but it’s different now—full of all the things he shared, and the fragments of my own story I offered in return.

I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts tangling and knotting up with memories of Grant. Memories I rarely allow to surface, especially here, where the past feels like a luxury none of us can afford. But after Dash’s story, I feel this strange tug to let the memories of Grant come forward, almost like I owe it to him. And to Dash.

The ache is dull but ever-present, like a bruise that never quite fades. Grant was everything solid and good in my life, but saying his name tonight felt distant, almost hollow. It should hurt more—I think. I don’t want to admit how long it’s been since I really thought of him, not just in those wistful, passing glances back but really remembered him. Maybe that’s the most unsettling part of it all—realizing that grief has changed, morphed into something quieter, something easier to hold at arm’s length.

I glance at Dash in the dark, his profile just barely visible. He’s still, eyes closed, his breathing steady, but I know he’s not asleep. There’s something comforting about his silence, the way he doesn’t push, doesn’t demand answers or explanations. He offered his story without expecting mine in return, without the weight of pity or pressure, and somehow, that makes me want to give him more. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to.

But not tonight.

I turn onto my side, curling into myself a little. I think about what Dash said—about not wanting to start over, about the ease of familiarity with Marie. I understand that in a way I don’t want to admit. There’s a relief in sticking with what’s known, even when it’s not perfect. For me, that was Grant. He was steady, predictable, safe. But then cancer came, and then a couple years later, the bombs came, and now…well, safe doesn’t really exist anymore.

A part of me wonders what it would feel like to start over—not in the desperate way survival demands, but in the way Dash talked about, the way where it’s something real, something deep. The thought makes me nervous, so I push it away.

For now, I let the quiet blanket over us, the nearness of Dash oddly grounding. I’m not sure what’s happening between us, or if it even needs a name. But lying here, sharing pieces of ourselves in the dark, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there’s more than survival waiting on the other side of this.