Confession by Jacqueline Wang

She gazes blankly into the dark sea, swinging her feet back and forth like a small child. The moon looms silently overhead; the stars above hide behind thick clouds of fog.

“Did you ever regret what you did to me?” Her voice is something like a whisper — nothing like the strong, accusatory tone she’d always pictured in her dreams.

The words hang in the air, lingering in the salty night breeze before he answers.

“I don’t know,” he trips over the syllabes, unsure himself if he’s told the truth or not. “Sometimes I regret it so much. I knew how hard it was for you; I’d picture you crying alone at night. But other times ... other times, I was just so glad you were gone. I was sick ... so sick of you.”

His confession is a catharsis, unretractable and sweeping in its destruction the moment it slipped from his lips. “I’m sorry ... Cara, I’m sorry ... but I couldn’t take care of both of us at the same time.” His shoulders start to shake violently. “I couldn’t do it. Your health was getting worse, and I didn’t want to watch you turn into a skeleton anymore.”

They’re both crying now. “I know,” she sobs. “I know.”

The crash of the waves seal their words into the ocean forevermore, their secrets buried beneath the water. They sit like that for a long time: within arm’s length, yet neither’s hands reach for the other’s.