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- Today 7:07 PM
- Messages
- 40
The plane crash wasn't dramatic like in the movies. No fireball, no piercing screams — just a sickening crunch of metal, then silence. Then the sea.
Somehow, I survived. Clinging to a section of the fuselage, drifting in and out of consciousness, I finally washed up on the shore of a nameless island. The sun was cruel, the sand rough, but I was alive.
And so was he.
"Figures you'd survive," I muttered when I saw him, sitting on a rock with his shirt tied around a bleeding arm. His signature smirk was absent — replaced by something rawer. Fear, maybe. Or pain.
"Nice to see you too, Jenna," he said.
Eli Harrison. The human equivalent of a paper cut — annoying, persistent, and always showing up when least wanted.
We'd gone to high school together, then ended up working at the same consulting firm. I hated his guts from day one. He was smug, manipulative, and somehow always got what he wanted — promotions, praise, credit for work I did. He once told me I was “admirably average.”
Now here we were, stranded on an island together.
No one else had made it.
The first few days were a mess of clumsy survival tactics and forced cooperation. Neither of us knew much about living off the land, but hunger is a brutal motivator. We found a small stream, figured out how to open coconuts, and shared the miserable discovery that raw crab tastes like fishy rubber.
"You ever think maybe karma put us here for a reason?" Eli asked one night, chewing on a half-burnt fish he'd somehow managed to catch.
"Yeah," I said, "to punish me."
He chuckled — the first time he sounded human. “Still hate me, huh?”
I didn’t respond.
Because yes. Yes, I still hated him. But there was something unsettling about how thin his face had gotten, how quiet he’d become. No bragging about stock picks, no sarcastic jabs about my “ambition ceiling.” Just a guy trying not to die.
Still, I didn’t trust him. I never had.
Day twelve.
We argued about building a signal fire. I thought we should keep it burning all day. He insisted it was a waste of energy.
"If a plane flies overhead and we don't have smoke ready—"
"Then we light it fast," he snapped. "We need to conserve wood."
It escalated fast, like everything with us.
“You always think you’re the smartest person in the room,” I spat.
“And you always act like you’re the only one who works hard,” he shot back. “Newsflash, Jenna: you're not a martyr. You're just bitter.”
That stung.
Because it was too close to the truth.
The silence afterward was thick enough to choke on.
It was the storm that forced us to cooperate again. It hit on day fifteen, sudden and vicious. Wind tore through our pathetic lean-to like tissue paper. Rain slammed the island. Lightning cracked so close, it turned night into day for an instant.
We huddled in a small cave near the cliffs, soaked and shivering. I couldn't stop shaking. My clothes were drenched, and the cold clawed at my bones.
Eli noticed. Without saying a word, he scooted closer and draped his arm around me.
I wanted to push him away.
But I didn’t.
Because warmth was warmth. Even from someone you hate.
After the storm, something shifted.
We talked more. Not just about survival. About life.
He told me about his sister — how she’d died of leukemia when they were kids, how it wrecked his parents, how he'd thrown himself into school and work because it was the only thing he could control.
I told him about my dad. About how he’d lost his job and never recovered, how my mom worked two jobs and I vowed never to be that powerless again.
“You always seemed so sure of yourself,” I said one night.
“I’m not,” he admitted. “I just fake it better than most.”
We sat in silence for a while, watching the stars through the tree line.
“I used to think you were just a jerk,” I said.
He smirked. “Used to?”
I shrugged. “Still deciding.”
Day twenty-one.
A plane.
We heard it before we saw it — the distant drone of engines. We sprinted to the hilltop, fumbling with our dry tinder, our emergency fire pile.
Eli’s hands trembled as he struck the flint. I shielded the sparks. Finally, a flame caught. We fed it like mad, throwing on leaves, moss, anything that would smoke.
The plane didn’t stop.
It didn’t even slow down.
We watched it disappear into the clouds.
Eli dropped to his knees.
“We’ll get another one,” I said, more to myself than him.
He didn’t respond.
Later, I found him by the stream, staring at his reflection.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I don’t want to die here,” he said.
“You’re not going to.”
He looked at me. “You really believe that?”
“I have to.”
Day twenty-seven.
I woke up gasping.
The world was spinning. My skin burned. My stomach felt like it was folding in on itself.
Eli was already crouched beside me, eyes wide with panic. “You’ve got a fever. You’ve been out for hours.”
Water. I needed water.
He brought it. Helped me drink. Pressed cool cloths to my head. Whispered things I barely heard.
“I’m not letting you die,” he said.
“You hate me,” I croaked.
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Not anymore.”
Day thirty.
I woke up, weak but alive.
He grinned when he saw me sitting up. “Told you I’m not letting you die.”
I laughed. It hurt, but it felt good.
“You're not so bad,” I whispered.
“Don’t get used to it,” he said. But he was smiling too.
We were rescued on day thirty-three.
A fishing boat spotted our fire — a second chance that almost didn’t come.
Back in the real world, reporters swarmed. Family cried. There were cameras, interviews, headlines: “Two Survivors Beat the Odds.”
Eli disappeared from the spotlight quickly. I did too.
We didn’t talk for a while.
Then, one day, I got a message.
Eli: Still owe you one for not letting me lose my mind out there. Coffee?
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then I typed:
Me: Only if you’re buying.
People think the worst thing is being stranded with someone you hate.
They’re wrong.
The worst thing is realizing that maybe — just maybe — you never really knew them at all.
And the even scarier part?
They didn’t really know you either.
But maybe now, you both get to start over.
And maybe… that’s not such a bad thing.
Somehow, I survived. Clinging to a section of the fuselage, drifting in and out of consciousness, I finally washed up on the shore of a nameless island. The sun was cruel, the sand rough, but I was alive.
And so was he.
"Figures you'd survive," I muttered when I saw him, sitting on a rock with his shirt tied around a bleeding arm. His signature smirk was absent — replaced by something rawer. Fear, maybe. Or pain.
"Nice to see you too, Jenna," he said.
Eli Harrison. The human equivalent of a paper cut — annoying, persistent, and always showing up when least wanted.
We'd gone to high school together, then ended up working at the same consulting firm. I hated his guts from day one. He was smug, manipulative, and somehow always got what he wanted — promotions, praise, credit for work I did. He once told me I was “admirably average.”
Now here we were, stranded on an island together.
No one else had made it.
The first few days were a mess of clumsy survival tactics and forced cooperation. Neither of us knew much about living off the land, but hunger is a brutal motivator. We found a small stream, figured out how to open coconuts, and shared the miserable discovery that raw crab tastes like fishy rubber.
"You ever think maybe karma put us here for a reason?" Eli asked one night, chewing on a half-burnt fish he'd somehow managed to catch.
"Yeah," I said, "to punish me."
He chuckled — the first time he sounded human. “Still hate me, huh?”
I didn’t respond.
Because yes. Yes, I still hated him. But there was something unsettling about how thin his face had gotten, how quiet he’d become. No bragging about stock picks, no sarcastic jabs about my “ambition ceiling.” Just a guy trying not to die.
Still, I didn’t trust him. I never had.
Day twelve.
We argued about building a signal fire. I thought we should keep it burning all day. He insisted it was a waste of energy.
"If a plane flies overhead and we don't have smoke ready—"
"Then we light it fast," he snapped. "We need to conserve wood."
It escalated fast, like everything with us.
“You always think you’re the smartest person in the room,” I spat.
“And you always act like you’re the only one who works hard,” he shot back. “Newsflash, Jenna: you're not a martyr. You're just bitter.”
That stung.
Because it was too close to the truth.
The silence afterward was thick enough to choke on.
It was the storm that forced us to cooperate again. It hit on day fifteen, sudden and vicious. Wind tore through our pathetic lean-to like tissue paper. Rain slammed the island. Lightning cracked so close, it turned night into day for an instant.
We huddled in a small cave near the cliffs, soaked and shivering. I couldn't stop shaking. My clothes were drenched, and the cold clawed at my bones.
Eli noticed. Without saying a word, he scooted closer and draped his arm around me.
I wanted to push him away.
But I didn’t.
Because warmth was warmth. Even from someone you hate.
After the storm, something shifted.
We talked more. Not just about survival. About life.
He told me about his sister — how she’d died of leukemia when they were kids, how it wrecked his parents, how he'd thrown himself into school and work because it was the only thing he could control.
I told him about my dad. About how he’d lost his job and never recovered, how my mom worked two jobs and I vowed never to be that powerless again.
“You always seemed so sure of yourself,” I said one night.
“I’m not,” he admitted. “I just fake it better than most.”
We sat in silence for a while, watching the stars through the tree line.
“I used to think you were just a jerk,” I said.
He smirked. “Used to?”
I shrugged. “Still deciding.”
Day twenty-one.
A plane.
We heard it before we saw it — the distant drone of engines. We sprinted to the hilltop, fumbling with our dry tinder, our emergency fire pile.
Eli’s hands trembled as he struck the flint. I shielded the sparks. Finally, a flame caught. We fed it like mad, throwing on leaves, moss, anything that would smoke.
The plane didn’t stop.
It didn’t even slow down.
We watched it disappear into the clouds.
Eli dropped to his knees.
“We’ll get another one,” I said, more to myself than him.
He didn’t respond.
Later, I found him by the stream, staring at his reflection.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I don’t want to die here,” he said.
“You’re not going to.”
He looked at me. “You really believe that?”
“I have to.”
Day twenty-seven.
I woke up gasping.
The world was spinning. My skin burned. My stomach felt like it was folding in on itself.
Eli was already crouched beside me, eyes wide with panic. “You’ve got a fever. You’ve been out for hours.”
Water. I needed water.
He brought it. Helped me drink. Pressed cool cloths to my head. Whispered things I barely heard.
“I’m not letting you die,” he said.
“You hate me,” I croaked.
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Not anymore.”
Day thirty.
I woke up, weak but alive.
He grinned when he saw me sitting up. “Told you I’m not letting you die.”
I laughed. It hurt, but it felt good.
“You're not so bad,” I whispered.
“Don’t get used to it,” he said. But he was smiling too.
We were rescued on day thirty-three.
A fishing boat spotted our fire — a second chance that almost didn’t come.
Back in the real world, reporters swarmed. Family cried. There were cameras, interviews, headlines: “Two Survivors Beat the Odds.”
Eli disappeared from the spotlight quickly. I did too.
We didn’t talk for a while.
Then, one day, I got a message.
Eli: Still owe you one for not letting me lose my mind out there. Coffee?
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then I typed:
Me: Only if you’re buying.
People think the worst thing is being stranded with someone you hate.
They’re wrong.
The worst thing is realizing that maybe — just maybe — you never really knew them at all.
And the even scarier part?
They didn’t really know you either.
But maybe now, you both get to start over.
And maybe… that’s not such a bad thing.