A Script for Salt and Severance

The sand was coarse, clinging to their damp skin, gritty beneath Jamie's bare heels. He’d dug a shallow trench with his elbow, a subconscious act of fortifying their small perimeter against the relentless churn of the public beach. A seagull shrieked overhead, a sharp, unpleasant sound that cut through the general hum of a thousand summer conversations and portable speakers. Beside him, Kostia was quiet, tracing the intricate pattern of a broken seashell with a calloused thumb.

Jamie didn't need to look to know the precise angle of Kostia's brow, the way his dark hair fell just so over his ear, perpetually in need of a trim. He knew the faint scent of Kostia's skin – a mix of faint sea-salt, sun-warmed cotton, and that indescribable, specific smell that was just Kostia. They’d spent enough days, enough hours, pressed against each other like this, on benches, in the back booths of diners, in the hushed, stale air of Jamie's bedroom when his mum was out.

But this was different. This was the last grit under his fingernails, the final shriek of a gull that mattered. Tomorrow, Kostia would be gone. Not just to another borough, or another state, but gone in a way that felt permanent, immutable. The military. The word sat between them, a cold, unyielding stone.

“Remember that time,” Jamie began, his voice a little hoarser than he’d intended, “we tried to build that sandcastle, that stupid, elaborate one with the moats and turrets?”

Kostia’s lips quirked, a ghost of a smile. “It collapsed within ten minutes. And then your mum made us clean up the mess because we tracked half the beach into her kitchen.”

“And you blamed me for not packing the buckets properly.” Jamie nudged him gently with his knee. “It was definitely your fault. You always get too ambitious.”

“Someone has to be.” Kostia finally turned his head, his eyes, the colour of deep sea water just before a storm, met Jamie’s. There was an old sadness in them, an understanding that transcended their sixteen years. “You’re the dreamer, remember? I’m the one who tries to build something that might actually stand.”

Jamie’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to deny the sharp, painful truth of it. Kostia built, he built walls, he built a future, even if it was one Jamie couldn't be a part of. Jamie just dreamt, and his dreams were falling apart around them.

“And look how that’s turned out,” Jamie muttered, gesturing vaguely at the ocean, at the vast, indifferent horizon. “My dreams are sand. Your buildings are… going to places I can’t follow.”

Kostia’s gaze dropped to their hands, resting side-by-side on the rough blanket they’d spread. Slowly, deliberately, his little finger hooked around Jamie’s, then his palm flattened against Jamie’s, their fingers intertwining, a silent, desperate knot. The contact was electric, familiar, an anchor in the shifting currents of their impending goodbye. It was a language they’d mastered, one of quiet touches and loaded silences. This, more than any shouted confession, was their truth.

The Iron Chord

The sun dipped lower, painting the edges of the distant Cyclone roller coaster in impossible shades of orange and violet. The shouts from the boardwalk grew louder, less a joyful din, more a grating buzz of desperation. A fight broke out near the hot dog stand, a sudden, explosive burst of profanity and a sickening thud. Heads turned, then quickly averted, practiced in the art of ignoring other people’s misfortunes.

Kostia stiffened slightly, his grip on Jamie’s hand tightening, then relaxing. It was a habitual reaction, a protective instinct Jamie had seen countless times. Kostia, always ready for the world to turn feral, always ready to defend. But who would defend them from this slow, quiet unraveling?

“You’ll be good at it,” Jamie said, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth. “The army. You’re tough. You’re smart. You’ll be… a good soldier.” The compliment felt like a betrayal, an endorsement of the very thing tearing them apart.

Kostia snorted softly, a sound devoid of humour. “Good at following orders, maybe. Good at keeping my head down. It’s not about being ‘good’ at anything. It’s about… making a path.” His eyes were on the ocean again, tracking a lonely freighter on the horizon. “There’s not much of a path here for me, Jamie. Not the kind I need.”

Jamie knew. He knew the cramped apartment Kostia shared with his mum and two younger sisters, the endless shifts at the corner store, the quiet, simmering anger in Kostia’s father whenever he visited, about opportunities missed, about promises broken. Kostia was building, yes, but he was building an escape. And Jamie, tied to his own city, his own family, his own dreams of art school and escaping the outer borough in a different way, couldn’t be the blueprint for that escape.

“And what about me?” Jamie asked, the question small, barely audible above the surf. It was selfish, he knew, but the selfishness felt like a sharp, vital pain. “What about what I need?”

Kostia squeezed his hand again, a silent apology, a promise he couldn’t keep. “You’ll be fine. You’re… you’ve got a good head. You draw. You’ll make it to whatever fancy school you want. You’ll find your way.” His voice was low, rough, as if the words chafed his throat. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“Strong enough to watch you walk away?” Jamie challenged, pulling his hand away, a sudden, desperate surge of anger momentarily eclipsing the sadness. He picked up a handful of sand, letting it sift through his fingers, grain by gritty grain, mimicking the slow, irreversible passage of time.

Kostia looked at him then, truly looked at him, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes stole Jamie’s breath. “I don’t want to, Jamie. You think I want this? To leave everything? To leave you?” His voice was barely a whisper now, thick with unshed emotion. “I don’t have a choice. Not a real one. Not if I want to give myself a chance at something… more. Something different.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and true. Jamie knew they were. He knew Kostia was trapped, just as he himself sometimes felt trapped by the city’s concrete embrace, by the expectations of his own life. But understanding didn’t make the ache any less potent.

Towards the Inland Sea

They sat in silence for a long time, the shadows stretching longer, the temperature dropping a degree or two, ushering in the false cool of a summer evening. The Cyclone's last, mechanical scream faded into the purple dusk. The fight on the boardwalk had dispersed, leaving only the lingering smell of stale beer and desperation.

Eventually, Kostia stirred. “We should go. My mum’ll be expecting me.”

Jamie nodded, slowly, as if each movement required monumental effort. Getting up meant leaving this space, this final, fragile pocket of their shared history. He brushed the sand from his jeans, a futile gesture; it had permeated everything. He could still feel the phantom warmth of Kostia’s hand in his, an imprint on his skin that felt almost like a bruise.

They walked off the beach, their shoulders occasionally brushing, a familiar comfort that now felt like a painful memory being formed in real time. The boardwalk was a riot of flickering neon and the greasy scent of grilling meat. Families with sticky fingers, couples holding hands with casual ease, groups of friends laughing without a care. Jamie watched them, a profound envy coiling in his gut. They had easy futures, simple goodbyes, uncomplicated affections.

They didn’t speak as they navigated the throng, their synchronised pace born of years of walking together. Jamie found himself memorising the curve of Kostia’s jaw, the slight slump of his shoulders, the way his worn trainers scuffed against the worn planks of the boardwalk. Each detail was a photograph he was filing away, knowing there would be no new ones. He tried to lock away the sound of Kostia's breathing, the way the light caught in his dark hair as they passed under a flickering fluorescent sign for a fortune teller.

When they reached the edge of the boardwalk, the transition to the regular street felt abrupt, harsh. Cars rushed past, their headlights carving momentary streaks out of the gathering gloom. The roar of the traffic replaced the distant crash of the waves. It was a different kind of noise, a city noise, indifferent and relentless. Jamie felt suddenly exposed, their private grief laid bare to the indifferent city.

They turned onto Ocean Parkway, the wide boulevard stretching inland, a concrete river cutting through the borough. The lampposts were coming alive, casting pools of weak, yellow light on the cracked pavement. Kostia’s block was a fair walk from here, a journey they’d made countless times, always with the promise of tomorrow. Not tonight.

They walked in silence for a long stretch, the unspoken questions hanging between them, heavier than any words. What would they say? What could be said? The magnitude of the goodbye felt too vast, too encompassing to be contained in a few inadequate sentences.

Jamie stopped suddenly, pulling Kostia to a halt with a hand on his arm. His chest ached, a sharp, physical pain. “Kostia,” he choked out, his voice raw. “Please.” It was a plea for everything, for nothing, for more time, for a different ending, for an impossible promise. He searched Kostia’s eyes in the dim light, desperate for an answer, a sign, anything that might ease the cold dread settling in his stomach.

Kostia’s gaze, usually so guarded, was open, brimming with a sorrow that mirrored Jamie’s own. He reached out, his hand hovering, then gently cupped Jamie’s cheek, his thumb brushing a tear that Jamie hadn't even realised had escaped. His touch was rough, tender, and final.

“Jamie,” Kostia whispered, his voice cracking, a sound that broke Jamie’s heart clean in two. “I…” But he couldn’t finish. The words were too big, too small. He squeezed Jamie’s cheek once, his eyes closing for a brief, agonising moment, before he pulled his hand away, the sudden absence colder than the coming night.

He turned, his back to Jamie, and started walking, his figure already dissolving into the deep blue of the evening, leaving Jamie standing alone on the endless concrete, the taste of salt still on his tongue, the phantom warmth of a final touch fading into the cool Brooklyn night.