Sitting on my rock, staring at the waves crashing against the shoreline as I momentarily forget the notebook full of half-finished ramblings sitting in my lap, I can almost ignore the longing for him that is constantly present. The rumble of the sea almost drowns out my desire for him. I stare at the horizon and think, if only I could stay right here for the rest of eternity, I could survive without him. I could more than survive - I could be happy on this barren rock, with the sea for company.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Chloe standing at the window of her house, watching me watching the sea. I think she understands why I spend so much time here, at my rock. I think that she understands because her reasons for staying so close to the sea are the same as my reasons for coming to this rock every day. She isn't young anymore. I can see the lines creasing her face, the tiredness in her body as she climbs the stairs, the sadness that is all too often present in her gaze, and I wonder what life has done to this woman, to make her look a million years older than her baby sister, as though she were my great-grandmother rather than my aunt. I know my mother has tried many times to get Chloe to move back to Roswell. But she stays, to be close to the water, in hopes that its drug will continue working, distracting her from painful thoughts.

I don't know my aunt; I don't know the demons that chased her out of Roswell, away from her sister, away from me. Even staying here with her all summer, she remains a mystery to me. Sometimes she looks at me with a certain air of sadness in her eyes, as though the memories have pushed past the music of the waves and resurfaced in her mind, and I think it must have been something to do with my father. Sometimes she does a double take as she looks at me, as though she has to make a conscious effort to remind herself that I am not my mother. And I wonder not only at what hurt could possibly have forced this estrangement, but also at the strength of love still between them that she would take me in for the summer with no questions asked, not even a millisecond of hesitation. I watch her as she watches me, and I know that no matter what hurt exists, she would still do anything for my mother.

I watch her eyes, and I think I know the feeling I see there well - that mixture of heartbreak and determination that your life will not end when you see him glance at another girl the way he used to look at you, the way he still looks at you, even. I know the difficulty of trying to convince yourself that your life is more than just that one person - that you will be fine, more than fine, if you never see him again. That's the funny thing I've noticed about the water. Sitting here, staring at the horizon or writing in my journal, I do forget about him, and yet at the same time he is all I think about. That's the effect he's had on my life. Knowing him, knowing his secrets, has helped me to grow up. He started that process; the sea seems to be finishing it up quite nicely. There's not much to do as you watch the waves other than think, after all. And I've been watching waves for nearly two months now.

Today, something happened. Something happened, and I don't think words can possibly begin to explain it. I was thinking about Michael - Chloe took me to an art exhibition yesterday and one of the pieces reminded me of him. Feeling eyes on me, I turned back towards the house to reassure Chloe that I hadn't fallen into the ocean yet. But instead of Chloe watching from her window, Michael stood at the beginning of the rocks. I was shocked - I think I almost had a heart attack, and I know that if I hadn't been wedged so tightly between the rocks I would have fallen into the ocean and made all of my aunt's worries come true.

***

She's beautiful. Her hair is longer, and a bit lighter - it contrasts perfectly with the dark gray-blue of the waves. I see her, and for a minute I forget where I am. She turns to look at me, and the sun glinting off the sea blinds me. And then I get used to the brilliance and I can't think, I can't move, I can't look away from her. Her eyes look older, their golden green tinged by something resembling sadness, or wisdom maybe, and, thinking this change in her is my fault, I cannot bare to meet her gaze for long. I wonder if the smiling, laughing, crazy girl I knew still exists, or if the sea has swept her away and left only this somber creature behind. She still has not reacted to my presence, and I wonder if she has seen me at all. Not able to look into her eyes again - scared of the judgment or hatred I might find there - I focus on her lips. Not the best idea, at least not if I want to regain coherent thought anytime this century. If her eyes are different, her lips are the same. And, like always, my breath catches in my throat and I cannot breathe for a moment as I remember how those lips feel pressed up against my own. She stands up, and finally I know that she has seen me. Her movement frees my eyes from their captivity, and I am no longer held prisoner by thoughts of her lips. She is thinner, I think, and I worry about her health for a moment. But she is with her aunt, and I trust her family enough to know they would not let her hurt herself. It's me I don't trust not to hurt her.

I've never wanted to hurt her, but it seems like everything I do hurts her. I hurt her by not being who she wants me to be, by pushing her away when she wants to be close to me, by trying to protect her. Sometimes I think I never should have allowed her to get close to me, but it's as though I couldn't have stopped it even if I had tried to. And, really, I don't want her not to be in my life. I just want to be different, so that for once I could maybe make her happy. The way she's looking at me now, it's as if she's just waiting for me to hurt her again. And I can't help but think this is the one time I won't fail to live up to expectations.

She keeps moving towards me though, and I convince myself that if she really didn't want to see me she would just stay on that rock out there and ignore me. If she still wants to see me, then maybe there is hope for us yet. Her movements resume my trance, and I notice how brown her skin has become since she left me. She is darker than Isabel now, and I can't help but wonder where her tan lines end, or if they exist at all.

"Hey," I say as she reaches me, and even before the word leaves my mouth I am cursing myself for its flippancy, its stupidity, its inadequacy. There is so much I want, need, to say to her but can't. Words have never liked me much - it's as though they are caught somewhere inside me and cannot be expressed no matter how badly I want say them. I suppose Hank taught me how to hide in more ways than one. But the two of us have never needed words - we know what each other feels merely from the way we move.

***

"Michael," I reply to him, still wondering if he is a figment of my imagination. I want to reach out and touch him, to assure myself that this is really happening, but I stop myself. He is not mine to touch now; I'm not sure if he ever really was - maybe I only allowed myself to think that because I wanted to live a fairy tale for a while. Except my mother never did tell me conventional fairy tales, so I should have known that they don't often work in real life. I conveniently forgot that life goes on after "happily ever after…." And all too often Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Belle are left struggling to survive alone.

He does not seem to know what to say to me after that, and we stand, looking at each other silently. I know this really is my Michael then, because in my dreams he always knows exactly what to say. My Michael only surprises me with perfection on rare occasions - usually just when I have given up on ever having a "normal" relationship with affection and tenderness on a regular basis. Michael has passion. Passionate loving, passionate arguing - I know some people would think I'm crazy, but constant passion is tiring. It's true that he does have a calmer, more vulnerable side, but that never comes out when there are other people around, and even when we are alone it is rare that he lets any peacefulness overcome him. It's exhausting to always put on a show for the world, to try to explain why the two of us put up with each other. It's especially tiring having to deal with the pitying looks from Liz or Isabel or Alex or Max or Kyle or even Tess. Looking at him I realize, almost guiltily, that I have not missed any of my friends at all this summer. I haven't even thought of them once. I think of Chloe, and myself, and Michael, and the sea.

Dance, all of you…. To the universe belongs the dancer. He who does not dance does not know what happens.

Now if you follow my dance, see yourself in me who am speaking. And when you have seen what I do, keep silent about my mysteries.

I reach up to touch her face, unable to stop myself. Something in me needs her, needs to be connected to her again. She turns slightly towards me, and my knuckles caress her lips instead of her cheek. She blushes, and I wonder if she intended this demi-kiss. I am once again drawn to her eyes, and as I stare into their depths, I feel the beginnings of a connection. The world fades away, and though some part of me knows Maria is watching along with me, I lose all conscious awareness of her presence and can only watch the scenes flashing before me.