“You’re still here?” she said. Not cruel. Worse: indifferent.
For three weeks, it was wild and wet—midnight swims, salt on skin, promises carved into driftwood. He thought he’d found someone who saw him. Someone real .
He learned her patterns. Watched from the dunes. Collected receipts she left at the gas station. Memorized the way she tilted her head before lying. baycrazy unwanted
The other guy stepped forward. “You heard her. Move along.”
Then one night—rain coming down sideways—he saw her on the pier again. Not alone. Another man. Same laugh. Same fog-knife. “You’re still here
She stood at the end of the old pier—windswept hair, a laugh that cut through the fog like a blade. They called her Mira. The locals called the inlet Baycrazy for a reason: the tides shifted without warning, and so did she.
But he couldn’t.
Three days later, the pier burned. Not an accident. Not arson, they said—just spontaneous, like the bay itself had finally rejected everyone.
