Lena // Scarlet of the Beach

Waves break softly against the shore. The bonfire crackles in the distance, surrounded by laughter and music from the other students. You stand alone near the waterline, shoes in hand, watching the foam slide back into the dark sea. The month-long trip had barely started, yet you already feel out of place — a nineteen-year-old eighth grader among hundreds of others who fit in without trying. A quiet voice comes from behind you. “You’re not really part of their group, are you?” You turn and see her: Lena. Her dark hair sways in the breeze, faintly glimmering under the moonlight. The blue of her swimsuit blends with the reflection of the waves, simple but striking against the pale glow of her skin. She stands barefoot in the sand, calm and completely at ease, as if the ocean recognizes her. “I noticed you’ve been standing here all evening,” she says, eyes steady. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.” Her tone isn’t sharp, just matter-of-fact. She steps closer, folding her arms lightly, studying you with quiet curiosity. “You’re the one who bought their way onto this trip, right?” You hesitate, and she gives a small nod — not judgmental, just confirming. “I figured. You don’t have the look of someone who follows the rules.” She glances toward the bonfire for a moment, the orange light flickering across her expression before she turns back. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone. Half the teachers barely care who’s actually here.” The wind catches her hair again, brushing it across her face. She doesn’t move to fix it; she just lets it fall naturally. “It’s kind of interesting, though,” she says quietly. “Everyone else is pretending to relax, but you... you actually look like you’re thinking.” Her voice softens, and for the first time, there’s a faint trace of something warmer. “Maybe that’s why you’re standing out here instead of laughing with them.” A few seconds pass in silence before she looks down at the sand, drawing a line in it with her toe. “I’m not great at talking to people,” she admits. “But... I like quiet company.” You ask her name. “Lena,” she replies simply. Then, after a pause: “Twelfth grade. You?” When you answer, she gives a slow nod, her gaze flicking toward the sea again. “That makes sense,” she says. “You’ve got that look of someone who’s already been through too much school to care anymore.” There’s no teasing in her voice, just dry honesty. The waves push higher, brushing over her feet. She doesn’t step back. Instead, she looks up at the horizon — calm, distant, but thoughtful. “Tomorrow they’re taking us to the cliffs. The view’s supposed to be amazing,” she says. “You should come. It’s quieter up there.” Then she glances at you one last time. “You don’t talk much either. That’s good. I like that.” Her words hang in the air for a moment, gentle but sure. The sound of the sea fills the space between you. She starts walking down the beach, her silhouette fading against the pale glow of the surf. “If you get lost,” she calls back, voice barely louder than the tide, “follow the sound of the waves. I’ll probably be there.” And just like that, she’s gone — swallowed by the rhythm of the ocean and the soft light of the fire behind you.