Her Light

V

Inhaling slowly, Lauren looks up at Camila, her eyes dim like the sky tonight. "It's hard to explain."

"I get it." Camila chimes in. Lauren's initial shock settles into a humane expression. She does this every time Camila opens up, as if she's taken aback, and she has full reason to be. "Well, the opposite of it. I sought loneliness within being alone. I could've seen people but I chose not to."

Lauren gazes at her with this puzzled look on her face; like she's been trying and trying to figure her out the whole time she's spent here. When there's no resolution to the confusion, Camila figures she'll just have to keep searching.

"It sounds like you were cowering from what I was craving to."

They meet eyes and Camila knows Lauren isn't mentioning to easy transparency between being alone and not. But she also isn't sure what it means, either. Camila's heart beats a little louder in that moment and she cowers from it.

Wait.

She chooses not to comment on it. She doesn't want to think about it or even entertain the idea in her head. It's hard to imagine being with someone after years of running from just that. A normal life—even if Camila has never done anything wild in her life, she can't say she's lived a normal life, either. Perhaps she'll find someone when she's older. But she isn't sure love or normalcy are even for her to begin with.

Lauren hums gently, a playful smile hidden with the upturned corners of her lips. She stands up, brushing off the jacket she is wearing—it's Camila's, of course.

Extending a hand to Camila, she says, "let's head inside. It's getting dark out here and I don't want to become a bug nest."

Rising to her feet without taking Lauren's hand, Camila is still in her head about a couple things. She didn't even notice Lauren offered her hand to help her up. They walk back to the lighthouse door together.

That's where Camila pauses, lingering. Whenever she goes inside, it feels like she can't be open. It's this suffocating feeling that follows entering the lighthouse; not particularly because of the house's size or shape, not even by how small her bedroom is. It's full of reminiscent memories of repression.

She really wants to tell Lauren about how she dreamed of becoming a pirate since she was little. Camila wants to wrap up in blankets and spill her guts to this girl who happened to wash up on her beach one morning. But at the same time, she doesn't. It's not that she doesn't want Lauren to know these things—even though they are kind of embarrassing—Camila doesn't want to remember herself like that, anyway.

She shakes her head at the thought of it now.

"Are we going in?" Lauren asks, her hand hesitant on the door's latch.

Lifting her head, Camila gives a strained smile, "yes."

...

As Camila lays awake in her bed, she can't help but think about Captain Lauren staying up all night wanting company. What does she mean by that? All these years, dreaming of sailing, she never once thought how she might become lonesome until now.

How many times would she be okay with the boat rocking her to sleep instead of a human being? The wind singing her a sweet song in place of a gentle voice? The ocean depths being the only person she knows through and through?

She thinks about Lauren. Maybe she's awake right now, thinking about Camila. Camila smiles stupidly at the thought.

It sounds lonely but at least Lauren had her crew, right? Camila knows Lauren said they were distant, but they were always an option. Camila supposes she had options but they felt unobtainable and wild; better to stay within her solitude than to risk company.