I've been dying to write this since Kate recounted her trip to Coney Island with her father.

Thanks to Angie (dtrekker) for the cover art.

The walls are closing in on her. Here, today, in this moment. She's drowning in a sea of black, suffocated in darkness, doesn't know how to find a way out. The water she's sipping slides down her throat, cools the deep ache in her chest, releases some of the pressure.

Her smile is tight-lipped and strained as she forces her mouth upwards at the people who pass her by with pitying eyes, sad smiles, and heavy hands on her shoulders. She supposes it's supposed to be comforting.

She fingers her mother's pearls as she scans the small crowd for the only person she can tolerate right now. She sighs, coming up empty, and falls back onto the bottom step of the staircase, glass forgotten. Here she can hide, sink into the wall, slip off the ugly, matronly shoes that adorn her feet because she's too tired to hobble around in even the lowest of heels.

She leans her head against the wall, her hairclip scraping against the paint. She winces, reaches back to release her long locks from their restraint, sighing as her curls tumble down her shoulders. Much better.

She wraps her arms around herself, her fingernails scratching the soft black fabric of her dress. She bought it especially for the occasion, dropped almost 100 dollars on it even though she knows she'll never wear it again.

But her mother still deserves the best, doesn't she?

She swallows the lump in her throat, blinking back the tears that threaten to fall down her face. She can do this later when she's alone in her room, wrapped under her favorite blanket as the loneliness seeps into her bones, cloaking her in a tight embrace when all she wants is to feel her mother's fingers, light and smooth at her forehead as she brushes her hair from her face.

She presses a palm to her forehead, as if she can tamp the grief down with the touch of her hand. Her breath catches in her throat and it's too much; she needs to get out of here.

She needs to flee. Breathe.

When she lifts her head, he's there, palm outstretched in front of her face, eyes tight with sadness. She sucks in a mouthful of air, slips her hand into his gratefully.

"Let's get the hell out of here, Katie," he rasps.

She nods wordlessly; nothing sounds better. She shoves her feet back into her flats and grabs her mother's navy sweater that still hangs on the hook by the door, slipping her arms into it easily.

And then they're out the door without so much as a word to anyone else, focused only on each other and their moment of respite.

They're quiet as the train rumbles along, but the silence is comfortable and she welcomes it over the low, mourning chatter of their family and friends. She doesn't know where he's taking her, but doesn't bother to ask, either.

She watched them lower her mother into the ground today. So, yeah.

She'll follow him anywhere he wants to take her.

She lifts her head from its spot on the window, her neck protesting loudly as she turns her gaze to him, needs the reassurance of his presence next to her, needs to make sure she hasn't lost him, too.

She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but the words catch in her throat. She licks her dry lips before closing her mouth, ashamed to have nothing to say to comfort him.

Not that she could, she supposes. There's nothing in the world that he could say to her that would make her feel better.

So she just leans her head on his shoulder, wiggling her cheek against the material of his black blazer. She feels his arm shift behind her, lifting to wrap around her shoulder to tug her closer. She sighs, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, the subway lights blurring as the car races through the tunnel.

She closes her eyes, revels under the warmth of her father's arm and her mother's favorite sweater. She forces her eyes tighter, maybe if she tries really hard, it'll be like when she was younger, squished in between the two of them, legs dangling happily from her seat as they take her on their weekly outing.

But her father's touch is too firm now, as if she'll disappear if he lets go. And her mother's arms are phantoms, figments of her imagination.

Even as she fails at bringing the image to life, exhaustion wins over and she succumbs to tense, uneasy sleep.

She startles awake, gasping for breath as she tries to shake the image of her mother's lifeless body from her head. She brushes a strand of sweaty hair from her head, cranes her neck to get a glimpse of her father.

"We're the next stop," he says roughly and she can't help but be thankful that he doesn't patronize her by asking her how she is.

"Okay," she says quietly, the word heavy and foreign on her tongue, the only thing she's said in hours.

He squeezes her hand. "We're gonna make it through this, Katie," he rasps. She nods, forcing a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. He sees right through her, into the strain of her mouth, the dullness of her eyes.

But he doesn't call her out on it, how can he-

When he's not even sure he believes it himself?

Coney Island. She takes a deep, shaky breath, inhaling the salty air into her lungs. The wind is balmy, calm against her face as her hair tangles around her head. She kicks her shoes off, desperate to feel the sand curl between her toes.

She pulls her sweater tighter around her to brave the chill in the air, watches as her father removes his shoes as well, rolling up the hem of his black slacks.

They walk in silence for moments, soaking up each other's company, enjoying their freedom. Neither of them feels any obligation to say anything, which is how it should be, Kate thinks.

"Can we stop?" she asks, dropping her shoes, collapsing into the sand before he replies. She bends her legs, resting her head on her knees as he plops down to join her.

"I've been thinking," she starts, her teeth sinking down onto her lip as his eyes find hers, thoughtful and anxious. "And I think it would be a good idea to transfer to NYU, Dad," she says breathlessly.

"Katie-"

She shakes her head stubbornly, pursing her lips. "I know what you're going to say, but I'm not moving home so you won't be alone." She hesitates. "But I can't-" she breaks off, shaking her head. She feels his hand settle onto her shoulder, squeezing gently. "I can't live on the other side of the country when my only tie to her is here, Dad," she confesses, her voice cracking under grief.

He sighs. "You're not a little girl anymore, Katie. I can't tell you what to do. I can't tell you to stay in California or to graduate from Stanford. But I don't want you to rush into this, either. If you're sure this is what you want, you know I'll support you."

"This isn't what I want." She swallows, scraping her hair from her face. "It's what I need."

"Okay," he breathes, leaning down to kiss her on the forehead. She sighs, her eyes slipping closed as she relishes the comfort of his proximity.

"I love you, Dad," she says quietly, lifting her head to wrap her arms around his neck.

He squeezes her tight. "I love you, too, Katie."

They spend the rest of the afternoon burrowed into the sand, dancing at the edge of the cool water, their fingers combing through the sea's debris, goosebumps prickling on their skin. They stop long enough to satiate their appetite with a couple of corn dogs before they traipse down the beach again, a lot colder, but a little lighter.

She trips her digits through the grains, spine curved, bent over the ground like a small child. Her father's digging some kind of hole only a few feet away, recovering and burying shells, twigs, seaweed, anything he can find.

The tide comes in further and further now and she can't tear her eyes away from him, waiting for the inevitable moment when the water washes all of his work away.

Sure enough, the waves crash around him moments later, catching him off guard as he tumbles out of his kneeling form. A gasping laugh escapes her and she doesn't hold back, even as he shoots her a half-hearted glare. She lets it roam, free and clear from her chest, ringing into the atmosphere. She owes it to herself, to him, when neither of them can be certain when they'll allow themselves the simple pleasure again.

She goes to him then, scraping her knees against the sand as she scoots over to him. She makes a spot a little further up away from the tide, smiling mischievously. It isn't long before he joins her.

She scours the beach around her for anything, unsure of what she's looking for. Together, they make a small pile of twigs, twine, and leaves before their nimble fingers twitch feverishly, working together to mold some unknown creation.

When they're finished, only minutes later, she holds the figure outstretched in her palm for both of them to look at. She smiles a little in awe, of this perfect little toy that they've made together on one of the worst days of her life.

He smiles, his grey-blue eyes wide and brimming, from sadness or joy, she isn't sure. She runs her fingers over the little guy's form reverently, yearning to hold onto this moment for as long as possible. Her father's fingers clamp over hers gently, nudging them to wrap over the small body in her hand. He brushes his thumb over her knuckles affectionately before letting his hand collapse into the sand. She pulls the little man into her body, curving it into her heart.

They sit, just like that, for what seems like hours, but most only be a few minutes. She lifts her head to the overcast sky, clouds looming over her head. She's surprised the rain has held off for as long as it has, seems only fitting on this day.

She gets to her feet reluctantly, reaches her other hand towards her father, fingers twitching. His warm hand settles into hers, grateful and loving, and she pulls him to his feet before collapsing into his chest, her breathing harsh and shallow. He crushes her into him, his tears dripping onto her hair. She clutches him tighter, brushing her wet cheek against the lapels of his jacket, letting go the minute he does.

"We're gonna make it through this, Katie," he chokes out, his hand pressing against her head.

And because this is the first time she's felt a glimmer of truth in his words, she slips the little guy into his pocket, pressing it into her father's body, a reminder that even on the worst days, there's a possibility for joy.

I never thought I'd enjoy writing something that wasn't Caskett-related, but I've proven myself wrong. This was incredibly cathartic to write and I hope it invoked at least half the emotion in anyone who read it as it did when I wrote it.

As always, love to hear from you.

Liv