Chapter 6: Tus Viejas Cartas

1:42am

You yawn. Your body is tired, but your mind won't cooperate and fall asleep. You don't have a bedtime or anything, but there's not much to do here at night, so you curl into your sheets and stare out the window.

The moon is gleaming through the curtains, and you sigh, because why does the moon always seem so sad compared to the sun? You wonder if this is how people see Quinn and yourself. She's just so bright and exuberant; it wouldn't be too shocking to discover people like her better.

You've always been second best. Jose; he's brilliant, an absolute genius, some might say. He never really applied himself in school, but you suppose he didn't really need to. He'd pass tests without ever studying. He'd ace quizzes without taking notes. He even scored a 2200 on his SATs, 400 points higher than you.

A late night talk show buzzes on the television through your door. You can hear more static than actual talking. But over the static, you can hear your grandma snoring louder than a wildebeest.

You can see it now; Abuelita in her napping chair, head tilted back, glistening drool pooling down her jaw, shining against the glow of the television. Most nights are like this; quiet, lackluster, slow, boring.

Yeah, that's it. Boring. You're bored. This town is mesmerizing; the sites are surely something to behold, but there's no denying the obvious truth that there's nothing to do here.

Sighing, because the full moon really is depressing tonight, you reach under your pillow and pull out your journal. The cover is brown and dingy, random pieces of thread hanging off the corners. The pages are wrinkled, yellow, and torn, but those aspects just add to the vintage feel of your latest entry.

Dear Journal,

When I was seven years old, my best friend Chance died. Car accident, my mother said.

"So, so sad," my dad kept repeating, "So, so sad." In the back of my mind, I remembered Chance's mom always allowed him to sit in the front seat of their truck, and I was jealous of him.

I wasn't jealous of him anymore.

I was overwhelmed and scared and lost, and I couldn't stop crying. And now I wonder; maybe that's why I can't cry anymore.

When you're seven, the kid you spend the most time with is automatically called your best friend, the person you're suppose to know like the back of your hand, but years later, when I met his sister, I discovered I really didn't know Chance at all.

Chance and I would color together all the time, but I didn't even know his favorite color was orange. We'd watched television at my house on the weekends, but I never knew his favorite show was Rugrats. In the summer, we'd carefully track down Mr. Softee's truck, but I never realized his favorite ice cream flavor was chocolate fudge.

And most shocking of all, I didn't even know Chance had a twin sister until I met Skye, who had attended private school instead of Alcott Elementary because she was "gifted."

To lose a sibling is one thing, but a twin? I can't even begin to fathom. It had been years - four years, precisely - after Chance's death when I met Skye.

Bright blue eyes, pitch black hair, ghostly pale skin. Skye was beautiful, though she looked like an exact replica of Chance, just the opposite sex, and it had me reeling. I was afraid of her for awhile, because she was like a ghost.

I'd forgotten about Chance after awhile, but seeing Skye was like a slap in the face, a cold bucket of water, snapping me out of my fog, forcing me to remember him.

When I got home, I told my mom what I saw. "There's a girl at school who looks just like Chance," I said, "Just like Chance."

Ma just released a sigh before pulling me into her arms.

I didn't understand until the last day of fifth grade. I walked home that day, because I missed the bus when I went back to my last period class to fetch my jacket.

I saw Skye on my walk home, strolling carefully on the other side of the street, refusing to step on a crack lest she break her mother's back.

I think she saw me, but we stayed on our separate sidewalks, walking home in the same exact direction. My house came up first, and right when I turned down my driveway, I heard a voice call my name. I turned around, and there she was, Skye, standing before me like an angel of the past here to deliver my wings and take me with her back to Heaven; back to Chance.

"You were his best friend," she said, tucking her hands deep into her pockets, as if she just wanted to disappear. This must have taken a lot of courage, I thought to myself, as I watched Skye nibble on her bottom lip.

I had just nodded, unable to speak for my voice was stuck in my throat.

"I knew before my parents told me what happened," she choked out, tears building in her blue eyes, "Something nauseated me, and I started vomiting. I couldn't stop, so my teacher sent me down to the nurse. I asked Nurse Benson about my brother, but she wouldn't tell me anything, so I continued to vomit."

Skye hesitated like she wanted to continue, but I supposed that was the end of the story, because then she left, and I didn't speak to her until the first day of the sixth grade.

That night, though, I googled the words Twin Telepathy, and I learned one more thing from Chance; the connection between two people can be both truly beautiful and the most haunting experience to ever exist.

.

.

.

The journal feels ready to fall apart in your hands once you finish writing. You drop the dull pencil on your bed and close the book. Tears build in your eyes, and all you can see is a blurry canvas.

If you blink, the tears will spill over, but you don't cry, you never cry, so you just stare forward until the tears evaporate and the flood lessens. Your eyes itch and burn, and this is how you fall asleep. Itching and burning.

Can it rain if there are no clouds in the sky? These are the things you think about when you do the dishes and peer out the kitchen window. It's sunny, as usual, not a cloud in the sky.

It hasn't rained all summer. You wonder how long it would take for the whole ocean to dry up if it never rained again. It doesn't rain much in Houston either, but you live in a brownstone in the city, so at least there's air condition there.

You're inside the house, but you're still sweating through your clothes. It's gross and sticky and wet. You don't think you should ever ever feel this wet unless you're in the middle of some rough and dirty sex.

The water from the sink pours over your hands. It's hot water, ironically, which just makes you feel even warmer. It's like you're burning in hell. You can hear every gasp of breath you take, desperately searching for some fresh, cool air to inhale. Your lungs contract, and maybe it would be a good idea to stop smoking, because it's starting to get hard to breathe.

"Abuelita, I'm dying..." you whine, scrubbing a patch of green mush off the last dish in the sink. The damn fuck won't come off the plate. You're so frustrated, you want to smash the fucking dish and cut yourself with it. It's the most morbid thought you've had since the last time you saw Skye.

Sluggish footsteps shuffle into the kitchen. You smirk at the angry expression on your grandma's face when you turn around. "Siempre caliente," she mutters, throwing the freezer door open and sticking her head in.

"Not this hot," you counter, turning off the sink. Abuelita groans at your complaining and throws a pack of peas at you without warning. You try to dodge it, but you're not fast enough.

The cold peas smack you right in the side of the face. Although the pack of peas are cool against your cheeks, there's also an unwanted stinging sensation left over after the peas fall to the floor. You hold your cheek with a grimace and look incredulously at the grin stretched across your grandma's lips.

"Abuse," you accuse, pointing a finger dead at her.

Abuelita chuckles, shaking her head. "No abuso," she sighs, picking up the pack of peas. You flinch when she places it softly on your burning cheek. "Amor duro," she concludes, gently patting your other cheek.

This feels like one of those moments; a moment where someone makes a heartfelt confession or declaration. You're not about to let this opportunity pass, so you prepare to tell your grandmother the truth, that you don't have a boyfriend because you don't like boys like that.

The words are right on the tip of your tongue, but before you can get them out, you hear the muffled sound of a car honking. This is nothing out of the usual, of course. Your grandma practically lives in the hood, so you hear all kinds of unsettling noises all the time. For instance, last week, you could have sworn you heard some gunshots going off in the distance.

What is out of the usual?

That voice calling your name, yelling, "Santana, get your sweet ass out here!"

Furrowing your brows, you peel the cold pack of peas off your face and glance out the window. Sitting on the curb is an old, broken down pickup truck. You smirk at the way Quinn's leaning against the truck with an arched eyebrow over her dark shades.

Mike's sticking his head out the window next to Quinn, and Sam's sitting in the back without a shirt, oiling up his body with gallons of sunscreen. From where you're standing, you can only guess who's in the driver seat.

"¿Quién es ella?" Abuelita asks, peering out the kitchen window beside you.

You're not exactly sure how to answer. Of course she's your friend, but...could it be more than that? You're not one of those girls who immediately label something a relationship just because a girl flirts with you. You're not that much of a prude. Though, you feel something with Quinn, and you definitely don't want to lie to your abuelita.

"Ella..." you begin, scratching the side of your sweaty neck. "Ella es mi...special amiga."

Abuelita looks at you for a moment, and you hold your breath, wondering if she catches your drift. After another moment, she smiles wide and tells you to have fun, but not too much fun.

(You're still not sure if she gets it, but whatever.)

There's air condition in this car. That's your first thought when you enter the pickup truck. Your second thought? Puck's glare is even more annoying through the rearview mirror. You try to ignore him the best you can.

"Where are we going?"

You're question was directed at Quinn, but Mike, with his eagerness and overexcitement, takes it upon himself to answer your question. "We're going to El Gran Fuente," he tells you, kicking his feet up on the dashboard. "Just don't drink the water or you might catch mouth herpes." You try not to gag at the thought, because that's kind of gross.

You catch Puck in the rearview mirror as he rolls his eyes in amusement at his friend. It's the first time you've seen him without that mean scowl on his face. When he's not sending you a death glare, he actually seems pretty human.

You're not sure about Puck and Quinn's history or past relationship. All you know is that they're close enough for Quinn to allow him to put his crusty lips on her neck

You grimace at the memory and look out the window.

Mike turns up the radio and begins to sing to the music once you're driving down the highway. His voice isn't very good, but he just seems so into it as he shrugs his shoulders to the beat that you can't really find it in yourself to care.

After awhile, Quinn joins in, singing at the top of her lungs. She's just as bad as Mike, but you can tell she's not really trying, just singing for the hell of it. You smile when she wiggles her eyebrows and dances in her seat, pointing at you and curling her finger enticingly.

Sam scares the hell out of you when he sticks his head through the back window and starts singing as well. The only two people not singing are Puck and yourself. You're self-conscious when it comes to your voice. You have some pretty good singing pipes, sure, but it's not something you like to show-off often.

Puck's lips remain pressed together firmly, his grey eyes focused on the street in front of him. He won't sing today. He won't give you the pleasure, or anyone else in the car an opportunity to see him with his guard down.

Maybe he'd be singing if you weren't in the car. Maybe, today, he'd be joking around with his friends, shamelessly flirting with Quinn, singing like he's a famous pop star, smiling wide with a smirk of the Joker.

But, you suppose, quite smugly, that today's just not that day.

You're not sure how long it's been when the car stops. Opening your eyes groggily, you realize you must have dozed off.

Peeking out the window, you squint your eyes against the bright sun and yawn. You're expecting to see a grand fountain with clear water bursting out of the ground, but instead, all you see is a huge, dusty landscape.

You hear Quinn curse under her breath, and when you turn your head to look her way, she's smacking Puck in the head, yelling at him about stupidity and gas and empty tanks and rising temperatures.

(And that's when you panic.)

Apparently, you're in the middle of nowhere with no fuel or water or food as it gets hotter and hotter by the minute. You can already feel a drop of sweat sliding down your temple, all the way to your chin.

Wiping the patch of sweat away, you hop out of the truck after Quinn and try to find out what's going on without looking too freaked out over your current situation.

As Quinn yells at Puck, Mike pulls his shirt off and wraps it around the top of his head as if he's walking through a desert in the Middle East. You roll your eyes at the sight of it, briefly wishing you could just easily take your shirt off as well.

You're sure none of the guys would mind if you walked around shirtless, but you still have some dignity left, so you reluctantly keep your clothes on, choosing to die in the blistering heat instead.

"Hey, it's not my fault," Puck huffs, kicking at the tire of his pickup truck in frustration. "I could've sworn the tank was full when we pulled off."

"Just shut up, Puck. Gosh, you always do this," Quinn exasperates, throwing her hands up in the air. "When will you ever do anything right? It's always the same with you."

Puck flares his nostrils, and you wonder if he's silently counting to ten like you do when you get worked up. "Why are you making this personal?" he mutters, his voice much lower than before.

You realize he probably doesn't want anyone to hear this discussion between them, but there's nothing out here for miles. You're literally in the middle of nowhere, so it's not exactly easy to avoid eavesdropping.

Quinn blows out a breath of air and places a hand on her hip. "You know this has nothing to do with us," she whispers, letting her anger flow out of her pores and out into the humid air. "I'm just...you of all people should know how I get when I'm hot."

Puck chuckles, a wry smile forming on his lips. You want to punch the dumb look off his face, but you doubt that would impress Quinn, and you really don't feel like icing bruised knuckles later on tonight, so you take a deep breath, count to ten, and join Sam and Mike in the back of the pickup truck.

Sam smiles at you when you settle in next to him. The look in his eyes; it's like he understands or something, so you reach into your pocket, pull out a pack of cigarettes and hold it out to him. He smirks and pulls a cig out of the white box.

As he holds the cigarette between his lips, you put the lighter up to his mouth and light it. When you offer the box to Mike, he just shakes his head and says, "I don't smoke," and you hold back the urge to mutter, You fucking prude.

(Whatever, more for you then.)

You take a cig out for yourself, light it up, suck in a breath of nicotine, flare your nostrils, and exhale through your nose like a fierce dragon. You're all quiet, listening to the soft whispers of Quinn and Puck's muffled argument.

They think they're being quiet, secretive. They're really not, because you can almost hear every other word.

Quinn: "You're...jackass...pain in the...so fucking stupid."

Puck: "All your nagging...happy we're over...can't stand this heat."

Quinn: "How hard is it...no gas in the car...we're gonna die."

Puck: "White girl problems...get some help...tired of this shit."

Quinn: "Fucking pig...getting hotter out...sweating like a butcher."

Puck: "Sounds nasty...herpes are worse...Barbra Streisand."

You raise an eyebrow when the whispering comes to an abrupt stop. Mike and Sam don't seem to be paying much attention. Mike's standing up, shuffling his feet as if he has to pee or something. To keep his mind off his full bladder, he stretches his arm high in the air as he holds his phone, searching for a signal.

Sam's eyes are closed as he blows out a puff of smoke, bobbing his head to the music playing through his earphones. The five of you are surely a sight out here. Mike has to pee, you're starving, Sam is about to pass out, Quinn is hot, and Puck is five seconds away from exploding.

"You smoke?"

Her voice, so loud and firm, startles the shit out of you. Flinching, you whip your head sideways, and there's Quinn, standing right in back of you with her eyebrows raised curiously.

You shrug a shoulder and pull the cigarette out from between your lips. "Yeah," you murmur, raising your eyebrows too.

"Give me one." You like the way she doesn't ask nicely.

Quirking an eyebrow, you purse your lips and whisper, "Say please."

You think she likes the way you don't obey her every command. "Can I please have a cigarette, Santana?" Her response is no doubt sarcastic, but something about the way she's batting her eyelashes condescendingly turns you on in a weird way.

You smile, because you just can't help it. "That's more like it."

Digging through your pocket, you hold out the pack of cigs just like you did for Sam and light her up. You watch carefully as she takes a long drag and releases three perfect smoke rings in a row.

(You want to marry her.)

"Mike," Puck yells, snapping everyone out of their thoughts, except for Sam who's still bobbing his head to some rock indie music that's so loud you can hear it coming from his earphones. Puck slaps Mike in the calf to get his attention. "According to the map, there's civilization about a half-mile down this road."

He points down the long strip, grey eyes glancing back and forth between Quinn and the map in his hands, as if he's just waiting for her to say something smart. Quinn smirks behind a cloud of smoke, hazel eyes bright in amusement.

She opens her mouth, eyes squinted menacingly, like she's about to add a comment, but then she shakes her head, deciding it might be best to leave some things to herself.

Puck waits another second, just in case, but when Quinn shrugs a shoulder and puffs out another line of smoke into his face, he rolls his eyes, looks to Mike, and says, "Sam's gonna stay here with the girls while we look for help." He glances in Sam's direction. "Sound good, Sammy?"

As you figured, Sam's not listening, continuing to smoke his cig and rock his head back and forth to the music, eyes closed as he basks in the scorching sun. His pale skin is starting to turn red, but you don't say anything.

(Hey, you never know, maybe he wants to look like a lobster.)

Puck sighs, ignoring the lack of response and grabs his backpack from out of the truck. Mike hops off the back and lands on the ground gracefully. A fog of dirt floats up from the ground, and you cough when some of the dust enters your lungs. Quinn waves the dirt away from her face as she climbs up the back of the truck and sits on the edge right next to you.

By the time Mike and Puck set off, walking off into the distance, Sam's completely dozed off, and Quinn looks so irritated, she could pop a blood vessel.

You try to think of ways to calm her down. You've been to enough anger management group counseling sessions to solve this kind of problem. Yet, the only thing that works for you is knitting, and you don't want Quinn to think you're lame for knitting booties and wristbands, so you try to think of something else.

Sam's not looking or paying any attention, and if his chest wasn't heaving up and down, you'd even assume he was dead, so you reach for the hem of your tank top and pull it over your head in one swift motion, prepared to blame it on the heat if Quinn questions your random actions.

You're wearing a black sports bra underneath, so it's not like you're revealing everything, but Quinn still smirks when she turns her head. Her eyes linger on your tanned skin, and when she licks her lips, you can't decide if you've stopped breathing, or just plain died.

"Um, guys," you hear, and dammit, Sam, really? He's looking back and forth between you, silently wondering if it's okay that he probably stared for a whole perverted minute before alerting you of his presence. "I figured there was something between you two..." he trails off teasingly, flicking some of the ash from his cig into the dirt below.

Quinn huffs, placing her cigarette back between her lips with a roll of her eyes. "What are you implying, Sam?" she asks him, arching a brow.

Sam raises his hands at her defensive tone. "Nothing, nothing, just..." he starts, but then stops, and you wait for him to continue, looking back and forth between Sam and Quinn as if you're watching a very competitive tennis match. "Never mind."

"No," Quinn says immediately, shaking her head. "I want you to finish your statement. What were you gonna say?"

Suddenly, you feel more naked than you did two minutes ago. "It's fine, Quinn," you murmur, feeling a little put out. "He was just joking."

"Just joking," Sam echoes, nodding along in agreement. You don't know why she seems so bothered by the comment. Quinn's been blatantly flirting with you ever since you first met, but when somebody points it out, she almost has an aneurysm?

It doesn't make sense, especially when she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes before cracking a smile. "Just joking," Quinn repeats, grabbing the Polaroid around her neck. She fiddles with the camera for a moment, then snaps a quick picture of you before you can even tug your shirt back on.

You're confused, there's no denying that, but it's a better emotion than vulnerability. Quinn's smiling again, and you love her smile, so you smile too. "Pervert," you remark, hoping it will make her grin even wider.

Quinn nudges you in the shoulder, and you almost fall off the side of the truck before catching your balance. Quinn takes a snapshot of this as well, along with a picture of Sam cracking up and almost choking on the cigarette between his lips.

You're not bold, but you like to make people think you are. Quinn's so confident and sure of herself, it makes you feel less bold in comparison, even when you're not pretending.

It doesn't make you feel weak, but something close to it. You used to like feeling needed, and once that sensation dwindled, so did you. That's where most of your mistakes and poor decisions stem from; that dull feeling of loneliness and seclusion.

Quinn doesn't make you feel that way. When she looks at you, it's like there's nothing in this world you can't do. And at the same time, she's so independent and free, you can't help but admire her.

You're nothing alike, as far as you can tell, but there's something. Dammit, there's this something in her eyes, this pain; you can feel it every time you make eye contact with her.

(And it breaks your heart.)

You wonder about heartbreak. The average heart beats about 72 beats per minute, and it weighs approximately 250 grams. When you're scared or excited or annoyed or aroused, your heart rate increases, but when you're calm or composed or bored or heartbroken, your heart barely beats at all. Sometimes it feels as if you can't go on. Whatever you feel, you're feeling it in your heart.

That's how you know you either love Noah Puckerman, or you hate his freaking guts, but you're pretty certain it's the latter. Your heart jerks in your chest whenever you see him, and you know what that feeling is.

It's jealousy, it's anger, it's remorse, it's hate. You don't even know him, yet you hate him. You don't think that's normal, but at the moment you could very much care less.

It turns out, you don't die out in the middle of nowhere. There was a gas station less than a quarter mile down. Puck and Mike were back before you could even sneeze from all the dust floating in the air.

You're on your way again, down the deserted road for about an hour until you enter another town, or city, as it seems to be, considering the tall buildings, long roads, massive traffic. The sign reads Ciudad de las Luces. You've never heard of it, like most things in Mexico, like most things about your roots.

Back home in America, the city of lights is New York, New York, or Las Vegas, Nevada, or Los Angeles, California. There are so many different "City of Lights" around the world, and somehow, it doesn't make you feel as lonely as usual. Somehow, it makes you feel closer to home.

You can't see the lights now, of course, since it's daytime. A small part of you is hoping you stay out past your curfew, no matter what your grandma says, just so you can see these grand lights Quinn speak so highly of.

As she stares out the window, wonder in her eyes, she tells you about the tall skyscrapers, how they glow in the darkness of night; the streetlights, how they shine down on the sidewalks; the stores and shops, how they never close, staying open at all hours of the night, just to accommodate their customers.

This beautiful city, only about two hours outside Santo Amor, is like a whole other world in comparison. Life in Santo Amor is hard and cheap and poor, and yet, none of the beauty of that town dims because of it. Maybe it's the prideful, hard working people that make Santo Amor so mesmerizing in the first place.

Quinn must've been here before. Everything she described on the way here is an exact replica of the magnificent fountain you're staring at now. People from all walks of life are enjoying the splendor of the nice, cool water on this simmering, summer day.

Kids run around, laughing and smiling and splashing their friends in the fountains while parents shout at their children to play safe and stay within their watchful view.

Mike is the first one to hop out of the truck. Your eyes follow after him until he disappears within the crowd somewhere. Just as you're pulling your door open, Sam's jumping out of the back of the truck, yelling at Mike to wait for him.

Quinn laughs at the two of them, shaking her head in amusement as she grabs your hand and forces you out the vehicle with her. You follow without hesitation, smiling wide at everyone's excitement, and not even the glare Puck shoots you from the rearview mirror can erase the grin on your face.

You can feel his glare burning a hole through the side of your face. But you're not going to stoop down to his level and stare him down. Quinn isn't a piece of meat the two of you are fighting over. He's not her boyfriend, so ultimately, you have nothing to worry about. He's no threat to you, just an annoying itch on a part of your body you can't quite reach.

If it's scientifically possible, it seems as if the temperature has risen even more since you left your abuelita's house. As soon as you're out of Puck's air-conditioned pickup, every fiber of your skin tingles under the hot rays of the sun. Your skin feels dry and prickly, your eyes water under the bright sunlight, and all of a sudden, you're extremely thirsty.

Quinn's a dream in her denim cutoff shorts, plain white tee, and brown cowboy boots, and you drink it up. It's the most casual you've ever seen her, minus the VOLUNTEER t-shirt, and you think it fits her best. Quinn is the most free-spirited, laid-back individual you know, other than your brother, and it really is a big breath of fresh air.

You didn't bring a bathing suit, and it seems Quinn didn't either, because instead of stripping down in front of you, Quinn finds an empty area of the fountain, kicks off her boots near the edge, and carefully steps over the ledge and into the water.

Her smile gets even broader, and you arch an eyebrow, wondering where this water comes from, how they make it so damn cold, and if they can give you the secret in order to make Quinn smile this blindingly for the rest of her life.

"Come on in," she says, kicking her feet around joyfully, splashing water all around. "The water's great!" She's yelling now, her face raised toward the sun. You look up too, just to see what's so interesting about the sky in this city. All you can see is the hot sun smiling down, the tall buildings hovering over you.

If Quinn says the water is great, you're going to take her for her word. You've come to discover Quinn is right about a lot of things. She's fairly wise for her age, experienced and cultured from the many countries she's visited, so how could you not take her very sound advice and notcome on in?

Kicking off your converses right next to Quinn's cowboy boots, you carefully step over the ledge and into the water. It's not too hot, not too cold. You curl your toes and sigh. This fountain must be magic, a special healing source of some sort. As soon as both feet are immersed in the crystal clear water, everything becomes luminous; the sky is brighter, the smells are stronger, the sounds are finer.

It could be the water, or it could be you. Who knows? Either way, you rather pretend it is the water, because there's no way you'd be able to come up with these realizations all on your own.

You're snapped out of your thoughts when a handful of water is splashed at your face. The sensation of the cool water is refreshing, and you laugh at the wonder of it all as you bend down to grab some water of your own.

"Think you're funny, don't you?" you snicker, closing in on Quinn, an evil little smile on your face. "Well, I'm funnier." Quinn squeals when you throw the water, her lips spread into a smile longer than the Nile River.

You're a tsunami, a raging storm who doesn't know how strong she really is, and Quinn is the small, beautiful island, precious and innocent, yet dangerous and ready to fight back with all she has.

(And fight, she does.)

You find a balance, somehow. The island isn't as innocent as the tsunami originally thought. She's cynically smart and stubborn and bold, and she's not pretending. This is who she really is, and she doesn't care if you know it.

You wonder; why doesn't she hide? How can she trust you with all of this intimate knowledge? Why does the little island let in the boastful tsunami, knowing it will only hurt her in the long run?

You're soaking wet, clothes sopped in water, as you climb out of the fountain, Quinn following closely behind. She's dripping wet, hair stuck to the sides of her face, eyelashes sparkling under the sunlight.

(Islands are always so beautiful the morning after the storm.)

Somewhere in your hollow muscular organ, you want to kiss the island. Feel the breeze on your face, smell the tropical fruits, swim in the salt water of the ocean, taste the fish that live in the streams, jump down the waterfalls, going down, down, down, until you've gone so deep, there's nowhere left to travel.

An island is stagnant and strong, not even a vicious hurricane can move them or change them. They don't fight; they only embrace the negative and hope to come out stronger in the end. Hope. Strength. And you realize, quite vividly, you're not the storm at all. Neither is Quinn.

The storm is life.

Sometimes, when you come to a realization, it's shocking and startling and maybe even a little bit haunting. You may furrow your brow, take a suspicious look around, wondering if anyone is aware of the new information you have just discovered. A chill may flow through your bones, a shiver up your spine.

If you're not the storm, maybe you're not as destructive as you once thought. The scary part of life is life itself, and if you can learn to embrace it, just like the little island, maybe you will come out stronger as well; all you need is a little bit of hope.

Quinn keeps the hope alive, but when you must leave the city before dark, the hope dwindles a little bit. You were hoping to stay longer, but you don't let Quinn know how much this saddens you, because this has been such a nice day and you don't want to ruin it with your needless desires. Quinn and the guys have volunteer work in the morning, so of course you understand.

(Of course.)

Your grandma is awake when you get home, but you don't get into trouble like you expected. Her bedroom door is closed, a light shining through the cracks in the doorframe. You lift your fist to the wood, so close to knocking, so close, but then you stop when you hear a sound. It's muffled and low, and only because it sounds so familiar, you decide it's a song.

A veces los sentimientos

no se pueden manejar

y cuando nos atrapan

no podemos escapar

y es asi, nuestro corazon sufre

Y sigue y sigue

dando vueltas y vueltas

la loca rueda de la vida

y sigue rodando en mi cabeza

el enigma cautivante de tu voz

Y donde quedo ahora

esa hermosa ilusion

de regalarte a vos

lo mejor de mi amor

lo mejor de mi amor

lo mejor de mi amor

de mi amor

Just like hope, the wistful sound of your grandmother's voice is quite haunting. You didn't know she could sing, but then again, there's a lot you don't know about everything.