Still, I Stayed

The crisp morning air lapped around my body.

It crept beneath the sleeves of my jacket and settled against my skin, sharp enough to wake me fully. Far off in the distance, the sun hadn’t quite made itself above the horizon. The mix of amber with the rich hues of night told me dawn was approaching, slow and unhurried, as though even the morning was reluctant to arrive.

The sound of birdsong drifted through the trees.

Light. Fragmented.

It reminded me of laughter, a melody stitched into the quiet of the morning, rising and falling without warning.

Only two more kilometres to go.

The hike was never treacherous, nor difficult, when we’d done it years ago. Back then, it felt effortless, like something our bodies already knew how to do. Yet this time, I felt the journey in my bones. Each step carried weight, my legs heavy as though the ground itself was resisting me.

It was along the far side of Mariner’s Point that the waft of sea air reached me, sudden and unmistakable. It rolled in thick with salt, like a wave breaking without water. That scent — belonging only to the coast — tugged at something deep in my chest. It reminded me of a childhood spent here, of summers that once felt endless.

Walking past the sand dunes that spilled down into the natural rivers below, I was pulled back to the Summer of ’08.

It was the middle of the school holidays, the dunes brimming with children clutching boards beneath their arms, racing to the top as if speed alone could make them invincible. The sun beat down relentlessly, heat radiating off the sand, our faces slick with sweat.

I remember glancing to my left and seeing Rory crouched low on her board, arms wrapped tightly around herself, eyes fixed on the dune below. Her red hair was wild and untamed, strands escaping her ponytail and whipping around her face.

She broke her focus just long enough to meet my gaze, her mouth twisting into a familiar smirk.

“You’re going down, Sophie,” she said. “You haven’t beat me yet — so eat my dust.”

She pushed off with her arms, taking a shameless head start.

“Cheater!” I yelled, my voice lost as she sped away.

I followed soon after, pulling my body tight, hoping momentum would favour me. Halfway down, I was hurtling alongside her, our boards skidding over the hot sand, overtaking each other in quick succession. Victory felt close enough to taste.

Then my board caught.

A rock, half-buried beneath the sand — invisible until it was too late. I tumbled forward in a mess of limbs and grit, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs.

Rory reached the bottom first. She turned back, laughter already spilling from her, bright and unrestrained. When she realised I was moving — that I was okay — she cackled, collapsing onto the sand beside me.

“Spectacular,” she managed between laughs.

The sun burned overhead, encapsulating us both. Pain and laughter blurred together, inseparable.

My feet kept moving as the memory loosened its grip, one step folding into the next. The path narrowed as it bent toward the headland, the trees thinning, the air growing sharper. With every metre gained, the past clung tighter.

I wondered if this was why I’d come. Not for the view. Not for the lighthouse. But for the way the memories surfaced here without resistance. As if the land itself remembered her.

Out there, beyond this place, remembering took effort. Here, it simply happened.

And for a moment — only a moment — that felt like enough.

The sun had finally lifted above the horizon when I noticed the terns circling overhead, their calls sharp against the sky. It pulled me into another memory.

The wind had been uncharacteristically calm that day, lacking its usual bite. Two kites hovered dangerously close to one another. Rory’s grey eagle surged and dipped with confidence, while my turtle struggled to stay upright.

“When I’m older, I’m going everywhere,” Rory said, squinting up at the sky.

“Everywhere where?” I asked.

She thought for a moment, then smiled. “Everywhere, everywhere.”

The kite tugged at her hands as though agreeing.

The coastline came into full view as the memory faded. Waves rolled endlessly against jagged rocks below Eyrie Headland, white foam blooming and disappearing in cycles. Eyrie Beach sat just beyond the cliffside. I was close now.

I stopped and lifted my bottle, drinking too quickly. The water caught in my throat, cold and sharp, and my chest tightened in response.

For a split second, I was back at Coral Cove — the sound of waves folding into caves, Rory’s laughter ricocheting off stone walls. Then the memory shifted.

Rory coughed.

It had been nothing at the time. Barely noticeable. A pause between sentences. I’d heard it and let it pass, too caught up in whatever story I was telling.

The guilt arrived now without warning, swift and suffocating. I pressed a hand flat against my chest as though it might steady me.

There had been so many moments like that. Ordinary. Unmarked.

I hadn’t known they were ending.

The thought crept in uninvited, that one day, even this might stop working. That the memories would thin, soften at the edges, lose their weight. I slowed instinctively, as though moving too quickly might disturb them. As though if I wasn’t careful, I’d walk straight past the last place she still existed as I remembered her.

The idea of moving forward felt less like progress and more like abandonment.

My pace slowed as the lighthouse came into view. It stood as it always had, paint chipped, surface worn smooth by years of weather and salt. Unchanged. Unbothered by time.

I stopped just short of it, my breath shallow, my body unwilling to close the final distance. Waves crashed below, sending mist into the air, the scent of salt clinging to stone.

I closed my eyes.

Somewhere in the rush of wind and water, I could almost hear her. Breathless laughter. My name carried on the air, always just out of reach.

Don’t get stuck here, okay?

The memory faded, leaving only the ocean behind.

When I opened my eyes, the lighthouse beam swept across the water, illuminating the sea for a brief moment before letting it fall back into darkness.

I sat on the bench beside the path and watched it happen again. And again.

Each time hoping — irrationally, impossibly — that something might change.

That she might appear in the light.

She didn’t.

Still, I stayed.