I don't know what possessed me. Maybe it was the storm. Or the flickering candlelight casting twisted shadows on the cottage walls. But as the rain clawed at the windows and thunder rolled over the sea like the growl of something ancient, I opened the notebook. The pages were blank, but they didn't feel empty. And so I wrote. "He steps closer, eyes molten. The air between us pulls taut like string. 'Say it,' he whispers, 'that you feel it too.'" I paused, my fingers trembling just a little. The sound of Lena laughing in the other room was muffled by the storm.
I bit my lip, heat rushing up my chest. What was I doing? I kept writing. "I don't answer. He cups my cheek. His thumb brushes just below my lips. My heart is racing. My breath stutters. His lips crash into mine" I stopped. I stared at the page. I swallowed. Why did it feel like I had just lived that? Like his mouth had actually touched mine, like my pulse had actually skipped? The cottage creaked. A branch hit the roof. I shut the notebook fast and pushed it away. The storm outside was wild now. I blew out the candle and slid under the covers, my heart still hammering.
It's just a fantasy. I made it up. I must've fallen asleep.
Or slipped into something else. Because suddenly, I wasn't in the bed anymore. I was standing on the beach again, barefoot, the moon overhead dripping silver on the waves. The sand was soft and cool between my toes. Someone stood in the surf. Milo. Shirt undone. Hair damp. Chest rising and falling like he had just been running. His eyes locked with mine, gold-flecked and wide with emotion. "You wrote this," he said. "What?" "You wrote me into this moment." He took a step toward me. "Didn't you?" I shook my head, but I couldn't lie. Not here. Wherever here was. "I didn't mean to," I whispered. His hand touched mine. Fingers sliding between fingers. The ocean sang behind us. "Then write it right," he said, pulling me into him. And he kissed me. And it was every version of the kiss I had never dared dream. His lips soft but hungry, like he had waited lifetimes for it. His hands tracing my back. His body pressing against mine. I melted into him like I had always belonged there. The sky flashed. Thunder cracked. A symbol, glowing red, lit up the sand beneath us etched in fire, spinning in a circle. I woke with a gasp. The candle was out. The storm gone. The silence was loud. My sheets were damp with sweat. My pulse thrummed like a drum. And on the desk across the room, the notebook glowed faintly. A swirling symbol burned into the cover one I hadn't seen before. One I knew I hadn't drawn. And somehow, I already knew: What I wrote… was no longer just fiction.
I woke with the sun kissing my skin and the waves humming in the distance like a lullaby reversing itself. At first, it felt like any morning. Until I sat up and saw the notebook. It was closed, resting neatly on the desk where I definitely hadn't left it. A faint red ring, like a leftover ember, faded from the cover as if the glow from my dream had been real. I rubbed my eyes. Maybe I was still dreaming. The sheets were tangled around my legs, and I could still feel his hands on me. His lips. Milo's. I ran my tongue over my own lips like I was trying to taste the memory again. No. That was a dream. Just a dream. Wasn't it? Outside, the sea glittered like broken glass and Lena's voice rose from the cottage porch. She was sipping coconut water straight from the shell, draped in a white wrap, skin glowing like she belonged to Olympus. And there he was. Milo. In a linen shirt barely buttoned, his abs peeking through like a cruel tease. His hair was still damp, curling a little at the ends. He leaned against the railing, talking to her, laughing low. My stomach twisted. The exact way I'd written him. The exact shirt.
The same smirk. The way his hand brushed his temple like he always did when nervous. It was all there. My scene. In motion. I backed away from the window. My breath caught. No. This couldn't be happening. At breakfast, the déjà vu got worse. Lena teasing me about "sleeping through the best sunrise." Milo offering me a mango slice and licking the juice off his fingers with that lazy, sexy grin. I blinked. "Didn't you just say 'We should write about this island before it writes us'?" Milo paused mid-bite. "Yeah… why?" "You said it yesterday. Or last night." He furrowed his brows. "I don't remember that. You okay, Rev?" Rev. He always called me that when he was being soft. I nodded, forcing a smile. "I'm fine. Just a weird dream." He studied me, the way he always did when I lied. But then Lena pulled out her phone and asked him to take a photo of her under the palm tree. And just like that, the moment passed. Back in my room, I snatched the notebook. Flipped to the page. The words were still there the kiss, the beach, the symbol. All of it. I slammed it shut. "What the hell is this?" I whispered. A chill passed through the room, though the windows were closed. I shoved the notebook into my duffel, hiding it beneath a layer of tank tops. My heart was racing now not from desire, but fear.
If what I wrote really happened…Then what else could I write? And more importantly…What if I wrote the wrong thing? The air shifted that evening. Heavier. Thicker. Like something had noticed us. After a lazy afternoon exploring tidepools and sketching story ideas on the veranda, I'd convinced myself the "dream" meant nothing. That I was just spiraling from too much sun, too much Milo, too much everything. But then the old man appeared. No footsteps. No warning. Just there, at the edge of the trees as the sky turned bruised with twilight. "Don't scream," he said before I could. I didn't. I just stared. His skin was like carved bark, weathered and cracked, his eyes the pale gray of a storm before it breaks.
He wore a robe of faded red, cinched with a fraying rope, and around his neck hung a pendant the same symbol that glowed on my notebook. I stepped back. Milo heard the rustle and came running from behind the cottage. "Hey! Who are you?" he barked, half protective, half startled. The man didn't answer him. His eyes they were locked on me. "You opened it," he said softly, voice like seaweed dragging across stone. "Didn't you?" "What are you talking about?" I asked, playing dumb but already shaking. "The book," he whispered. "The Island's Heart. You wrote something." I clutched my bag instinctively. "How do you know about that? "He chuckled. "Because the island told me. It always tells.
" Milo stepped between us. "Okay, enough. You need to leave." The man looked at Milo, pity in his gaze. "You don't see it yet. But she does. She's already begun weaving threads. "I felt cold all over. "Who are you?" I asked again, voice smaller than I meant. He finally looked directly into my eyes. "The last one who opened it before you. But I stopped writing. You must, too." He stepped closer. "The Island is alive, child. It gives freely… until you take too much. Then it asks for something back. "I swallowed. "What does it want?" He didn't answer. Instead, he held out a small pouch and dropped it in my hand. It smelled of herbs and salt and something old, almost ancient. "For protection. While you still have a choice." Before I could ask anything else, he turned and walked back into the trees, disappearing as suddenly as he had come. "Okay, what the hell was that?" Milo asked, his voice shaking slightly. I looked down at the pouch, then up at the empty woods. And for the first time, I wasn't sure I wanted to know. But part of me the part that loved stories, that couldn't look away from the edge was already itching to write again. That night, I lay in bed, the pouch under my pillow, the notebook still hidden. And I whispered to the dark: "What happens if I write a lie... and it still comes true?"