The ferry rocked softly beneath her like it was cradling her sadness.
Glykós lay upside down on the makeshift bed, legs up the wall, hair spilling over the edge like seaweed drifting in slow motion. Her phone glowed in the dark, casting pale light onto her face.
She scrolled.
First came Plane Remix.
Same thumbnail she'd seen years ago. Same clunky engine rhythms. Same type of comments:
> "Why is this so good??"
> "Drop hits harder than turbulence"
> "Captain, we’re vibing"
Over 15 million views.
She didn't click it.
She already knew it by heart.
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Then she looked into his other uploads.
"Driving Diary #12: Gas prices & Ghosts"
7.4k views.
"Driving Diary #03: Why drivers are like bards"
4.1k.
Each video felt like a ramble caught in traffic. Not trying to be anything. Just••• Him. Talking. Joking. Making beats with turn signals. Ranting about map apps that kept pronouncing street names wrong.
"Driving Diary #08: The Passenger Window Talk"
She clicked it. Partly because of the title. Mostly because the thumbnail showed him alone at night, driving through soft rain.
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"•••I don’t really talk about her," his voice said, through the speakers.
Her heart clenched.
"But yeah. My ex. She’s the one who told me to mix music with aviation stuff. Said I should stop separating all my skills like I was afraid of being one whole person."
He chuckled. Not a happy one.
"I didn’t take it seriously at first. Thought it was cringe. But she believed in it. Said I was the kind of guy who needed to create to breathe."
Glykós swallowed hard.
The rain outside his windshield blurred the world in the video.
"I think that’s why companionship matters," he said. "Not just love-love, but••• Having someone who tells you to be the full version of yourself. Even when you’re in fragments."
The camera cut out right after that. Abrupt. No outro. No music.
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The ferry creaked gently.
Glykós flipped her phone over & stared at the ceiling.
She remembered the first time she met him—in person—at the festival.
She didn’t recognise him right away.
Just thought: This guy's funny. Kind of weird. Charming in a chaotic way.
Then her heart froze.
"You’re the remix guy?" she’d blurted.
He looked vaguely annoyed. Embarrassed. But nodded.
"Was. Guess I still am."
She remembered smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.
& he didn’t smile back.
Now, here she was.
Wishing she'd said something smarter.
Wishing she hadn't just fallen into the same loop again.
Wishing he'd see her.
She opened the chat.
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Typed:
> "I watched one of your old videos tonight. The one where you talked about companionship."
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Deleted it.
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Typed again:
> "If you’re still looking for someone to remind you to be your full self••• I’m here."
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Deleted that too.
She shut off the screen.
Rolled onto her side.
Still couldn’t sleep.
The morning air on the ferry was cold. Brisk, biting—sharper than yesterday’s silence. It did nothing to numb the hollow in her chest. Glykós lay still for what could’ve been an hour. Perhaps two. Staring at the ceiling, her mind playing back every stupid, hopeful, painful moment:
His sharp tone.
Her silence.
The lei, left on the table like a soft question no one wanted to answer.
She thought of her father—how he once dragged her out into the sea, ankle-deep in foamy defiance. She’d hated it. The waves had felt like monsters.
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“They’re just water & wind,” he’d told her. “Learn to ride them, & they’ll never own you.” Back then, it had comforted her. Now, the memory stung. She needed out. She zipped up her orange track jacket—her favorite, worn thin from mornings like this—& grabbed her things.
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She picked up her board. Glykós tucked it beneath her arm, pressed her palm to its waxed surface. The sea was unkind.
She didn’t want kindness.
She wanted the kind of wave that made you earn your ride. The wind was strong, but she was focused on her own thoughts. The wind left strands of hair on her lips, yet she did nothing. Each paddle out was a protest, a slap against everything left unsaid.
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“You think I don’t see it?”
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She pushed forward.
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“You liked the remix.”
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Salt hit her lips.
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“Maybe if I make another one, I’ll get to matter again.”
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She pulled harder, arms burning.
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Out past the break, she sat upright on the board. The sea rose & fell beneath her like a breath she couldn’t quite match. & there it was again. That familiar fear.The fear of being forgettable. Of giving too much. Loving too loudly, & being discarded once the high wore off. His words hadn’t just hurt. They had aimed. & they’d struck true.
He wasn’t the first to do that.
But he was the first she wanted to forgive.
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A swell built behind her. Dark. Tall.
She didn’t flinch.
She turned the board. Trusted the motion in her bones.
Paddled fast. Rose. Stood. Flew.
For a moment, she ruled the world.
Then—too sharp. The board slipped. The sea swallowed her. The cold gripped her lungs. She surfaced, gasping, hair tangled in salt. In that moment, the sadness broke like a shell cracked underfoot. All that remained was a clean, searing frustration. She wasn’t delicate. She wasn’t a phase, or a viewer, or a follower.
She was the girl who’d do anything for him.
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& he had been a complete jerk.
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She dragged the board back to shore like it had wronged her. Sand clung to her calves. She didn’t care. She sat down on the sand. Cross-legged.
She pulled out her phone.
Not to check messages.
Not to scroll.
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She paused.
Then hit record.
"Hi," she said. Her voice steadier than she expected.
"I’m not leaving this to a message you’ll half-read. This is just for me."
A beat.
"I didn’t fall for your remix. I fell for the way you talk about clouds like they’re old friends. For how you grip the wheel when you rant about traffic. For the way your mind jumps from turbulence to synths in the same sentence."
She swallowed.
"Look, I’m not trying to be a poet here, so I’ll just say what I’m thinking. I’m sorry if you took that advice I gave you defencively, it was out of love & care."
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A pause.
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"Martin, you. I- I told y••• You know I’m a people pleaser. I care about how others see me. What I said was difficult to bring up. If I only saw you as that viral pilot guy instead of a friend, I would’ve just saved face & talked about other things more flattering. But it’s OK. Look, good luck on whatever it is you have to do." She ended the recording. Sent. Then she tucked the phone away, leaned back, & let the sun dry her skin.
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