you think about mai. not by your own volition, because your old life is slowly drowning in fog a thousand miles off shore and because she deserves so much better than the likes of you, but you can't help it. you think about her the same way you breathe harsh gasps of salt air, naturally.
(you dream of her a few months before your sixteenth birthday. she's perched on top of a tree, the afternoon sunlight drenching her pale form, and she laughs, dangles an apple just out of your grasp as you reach up from the base. her features are blurred, a rough sketch; you awaken sweating and so hard it's painful.)
uncle asks you, teasingly, why you've no desire for the brothels like all the other sailors. offers to introduce you to the most skilled whores in the backwater colonies of aizubange, miharu, ōsato, if only it'll brighten your grim countenance a moment. you scowl and press a hand against the scarred part of your face in reply. do not ever tell him the truth.
at night you wonder if she is any happier than she was when you left.