She sits, leaning against the wall, like there is no reason to try to support the weight of her own body anymore. The breeze that blows from the fresh ocean air would have refreshed even the most bitter at heart, but did nothing to Grace Whitney. It only blew her blonde hair-wavy by both nature and the saltiness in the air-in every direction. Small tendrils whacked against her cheeks and her nose repeatedly, stinging and burning just slightly. It did not discomfort her. In fact, she barely even noticed. She simply let her feet bury deeper into the sand, keeping her eyes trained on the waves.

It's a game of sorts, a way to keep her mind occupied with other things. Every time the ocean draws the water into itself she breathes in. Her breathing matches the rhythm of the waves, in and out as the tide goes. When she breathes out the tide comes toward her, waves curling and foaming and collapsing upon themselves, stretching out as far as they can until they dissipate into the wet sand. Grace watches, blank, as the process of nature repeats itself.

She cannot bring herself to get up from this sand, although her butt hurts from sitting in this same pile of sand, and her spine has begun to dig into the wall. She doesn't mind the sun on her body, harsh and omnipresent. She doesn't mind the quiet-only the sound of the waves have been the soundtrack to this morning.

The company isn't bad either; a few groups of people have passed her since she's arrived, and none have even spared her a second glance. There was the couple, young and in love, who'd been sharing an ice cream when they'd crossed her perfect vision of the shore. The man was doting and the woman keeping her arm around his back, leaning into him every so often. She paid little attention to them. There was then a single man, jogging along the water with a pair of headphones on. He kept an excellent pace, but the shadow dotting his chin and his puffed out chest made her watch him, knees pulled up to her chest, until he disappeared from her sight. Other than that there was nobody…no one to talk to her, no one to sit with, and no one to care…

And she was just fine with that.

Class would just be getting out now. Grace could feel the internal schedule that had been drilled into her mind letting her know. Had people been wondering about her? Had they been worrying about where she had been? She doubted it. Although Abigail seemed concerned for her last night, when she hadn't said a word during their nightly vent session, Grace knew she'd let it go. The only person she had to worry about was Lucy…she'd be furious that Grace had skipped class again. It would be another trip to her office, chatting over tea and bagels and pretending everything is alright.

But it's not. Grace knows that everything is not alright, but she can't bring herself to do anything about it. As she slips farther into the black days, the shadow days, she can't do anything but let herself sink. And right here, on this beach, it's as if she can't feel anything. There's no regret over skipping class, no happiness over Sammy's recovery…not even an inkling of pain regarding the memories of holiday that have haunted her every thought. No, right now Grace Whitney can't make herself feel anything. That, she thinks, should terrify her the most.

The real horror lingers in the shadows, only coming out when the moon is high and even the crickets have gone to sleep. It creeps along her dreams, dusting them with darkness and clouding them with the insecurities that hide behind her daytime smile. It's laced between words that echo over and over again in the hollowness of her mind; I should have never followed in your footsteps. Look what I've become.

I'm dirty,

Rotten,

Useless…

Nobody will want something that is broken. Nobody wants something that is battered, used. The solution is obvious, Grace. Just quit while you're ahead. That's what your mother did, isn't it? You wanted to be just like her, and now look who you've become…

She's been snapping herself out of these thoughts quite a lot lately, sitting up in bed with clammy hands and a forehead dripping with sweat. Grace has been waking up crying, tears making tracks down her face and marking her pillow with feelings that will disappear with the flip of a pillow. I'm fine, she tucks herself back into bed, this is all just a nightmare.

But the nightmares have been coming during the day, the shadows finding their way into her mind and her soul until she doesn't even know who she is anymore. There's no use in going to class-she's already trained up to be just like her mother, so why bother being anything else? And making friends with Abigail-what a joke! The girl who has absolutely none of her life together becoming friends with the girl who's got a stable boyfriend and working therapy? Grace Whitney actually having a friend? She laughs sardonically at the concept. Abigail's feels close, but Abigail doesn't know the whole story. Nobody does. If she finds out …if Grace lets her in completely, she expects the brunette will run away faster than everybody else did; that her back will turn just as it should. Because really, in this shadow world, does the queen of the black days even deserve such a friend?

Grace sits until the orange glow of the sunset dusts the beach in the soft light of the end of another day. She smooths her blonde hair, gnarled by the earlier whipping wind, in attempts to fix its messiness. When it won't tame she pulls half of it up into a ponytail, uncaring, and lifts herself up from the sand. For a moment she stands, stoic, and stares at the imprint of her butt in the sand. She'd been there all day, just sitting. 12 waking hours of staring at the waves and listening to their pull and release, just breathing.

Even after a day of doing nothing, Grace Whitney still does not feel better.

She dusts herself off; legs, feet, and butt, and begins her trek back to the dorms. When she reaches the pavement she straps sandals to her feet, looking up to see the throng of people in front of her. There seem to be hundreds of them; men, women, children…human beings living their individual lives. Some wear business attire and carry briefcases, hurrying to their next destination while talking in rapid pace through their Bluetooth headsets. Packs of teenagers traipse from shop to shop, hoping to catch the last fleeting moments of the day. They hold phones in one hand and each other's hands in the other; gaggles of girls with their arms interlocked, mobs of guys licking ice cream cones from the shop down the street. Mothers walk with their feet-dragging children, tired from their long days of play. Everyone chats and mingles, rushes to get where they need to be. Everyone has their own life, with feelings and emotions and thoughts…and then she sees him.

Well, it looks like him. He's across the street, just coming out of a sushi shop. In one hand he carries a brown paper bag, in the other his sunglasses. His striking blue eyes scan the street, seeming to search the crowd, and she ducks her head as a reflex. He still has those biceps-she can feel them now, the way they wrapped around her…powerful, sure of his actions. His chin is still dotted with that same stubble, prickling and itching, insulting. Her pulse begins to race. He's starting toward her direction. Her long legs pick up speed, heading toward the Academy and opposite the direction of the man. A familiar tingling sensation begins in the tips of her fingers, and she attempts to wiggle it out. No. I won't let this affect me. But her breathing hitches in her throat and her chest heaves in and out, unable to be controlled by her dizzying mind. But her body soon bumps into something plush, and arms grip her shoulders. In a frenzy she fights, flailing her limbs and slapping at the force until she hears a familiar tone.

"Grace? Grace, it's Ben. It's alright, it's just me!" His voice dissipates her frenzy, pulling her into the present. She's in the middle of the sidewalk, just a mile away from the beach. Her feet ache from all the running, and her body sinks with the immediate weight of her exhaustion coupled with the relief of hearing his voice. He catches her, holding her to his chest as her body shakes with the low whimpering that's disguising her cry. Ben rubs soothing circles on her back, not knowing what else to do in that moment. When she pulls away from him she's forcing a smile, but anybody would be able to see through it. Big tough Grace's lips barely move an inch from terrified, and so he wraps his arm around her shoulder and begins to lead her home.

"You can talk to me, you know." Ben's nearly choking on his words, and she can tell. His voice is wobbling but he's maintaining a calm façade just as well as he's maintaining the hold on her shoulder. He doesn't want her to go anywhere as much as she doesn't want him to leave.

"I know." It's all she can manage to get out without crying again. Exhausted, she leans her head toward Ben's chest, letting him pull them along on their walk to the dorms. Grace is too tired to care about vulnerability now.

"What happened in Adelaide…"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I know, but you should. Not to me-I mean, unless you wanted to, of course. But to someone. You really should talk to someone, Grace."

"I know…it's just…" She pauses, unsure of a way to publicly phrase her private thoughts. She could trust him, she knew she could. Hell, he'd proved his trust time and time again in that short week in Adelaide. But he was Ben. He was normal, and cute, and not twisty at all. If he knew she was in that headspace again…if he had been inside her head this week…

But he was Ben, and she'd never have him like Abigail had Sammy, or Tara had Christian. He was nice, and he'd saved her, but that was it. She was Grace and she was twisty, and dark, and she had Adelaide. He knew too much to like her like that. So instead of doing what she wanted; trusting him, letting him hold her like that, telling him about the nightmares and the shadows, she pulls away.

"I guess it's just complicated." She walks close to him, but doesn't let him hold her anymore. Because Grace Whitney is broken, and who would want to love a broken girl with a tendency for hanging out on hotel balconies?