The moment I saw what the chest contained, I wished I’d never opened it. . .but it was too late now.

My hands shake as I stare inside it.

“Damon,” I whispered, “How?”

I pick up the strip of pictures. I trace my finger across Damon’s face.

Tears make there way down my cheek, denting the dark earth beneath me.

I choked out a sob, “Damon,” I cry, “Damon are you. . . Alive?”

I close my eyes letting the picture drop to the ground. It had been years, it felt like hundreds. And all this time, I could have saved myself the pain, the tears. Damon wasn’t gone, he hadn’t died in this ocean all those years ago.

My eyes open, the picture laying on the sand.

I pick it up, my smile looks so real. It must have been, I wonder what it feels like to smile. For real.

“Maia.”

My heart skips a beat. And a smile comes to my face.

“Dae?” I ask, turning around.

And there he is, standing with his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“I’ve missed you, Mi,” he smiles, as I stand up running into his arms.

“How are you here?” I ask as he hold me close.

Damon doesn’t answer his grip becomes tighter, too tight.

“Damon!” I yell, “I can’t. . .”

Breathe. My vision becomes foggy, my lungs begging me for air.

Damon laughs as he looks at me, that smile. My smile. It switches, I’m holding Damon, choking him. Covering his nose and mouth with my hands. His blue eyes, slowly turning black.

“Damon!” I scream, sitting up in bed. My back is soaked with sweat making my shirt stick to it.

I take deep breaths, my hands on my throat.

“Maia!”

Mom rushes into my open bedroom door. Her tired eyes filling with fear. Anger.

I feel water gathering in my eyes.

“He’s gone,” I choke out, “Damon’s gone.”

Mom sits on my bed, brushing my hair out of my eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered.

“I . Kil. . .killed him,” I say, my eyes meeting hers.

Mom pulls me into a hug, “Damon was dying. Suffering. You did the right thing. . . You did the best thing. You put him out of his misery. . . Gave him peace.”

I shake my head, my mouth open but no sound coming out. I could feel the tears in my throat begging me to cry like a little kid. Begging me to grow weak.

“I killed him,” I cry, “I killed him.”

Mom rocks me back and forth shushing me as she brushes her hand down my head.

“It’s okay baby,” she soothes, “Damon’s okay.”

“I killed him,” I whisper, “I killed him.”