We wake up
   on separate islands.

Mine has coconuts and sarcasm.

Hers has playlists and perfect hair.

There’s a storm coming,
   because of course there is.

The sky’s already humming,
   and the torches won’t light the way they should.

I build a lean-to from palm fronds and metaphors.
She builds a hammock out of whatever I said last Tuesday.

We're each playing the long game.
   Foraging for patience.
   Scavenging signals.

Every time I try to send a message—
   a smoke signal,
   a bottle,
   a whisper into the rain—

I imagine her finding it
   and just… smiling.

Not surprised.

Just glad it arrived.

The host shows up once,
   tries to pitch a twist: Merge early?

   We laugh.

She says: “Not yet.”

I say: “Same.”

We’ve got our own rules anyway.

Challenges arrive like clockwork:

    Sit still. (fail)
    Don’t miss them. (fail)
    Go five minutes without checking your phone. (absolutely fail)

Immunity idols come shaped like
    old photos,
    song lyrics,
    screenshot streaks,

    voice messages that play like lullabies.

She wins most of them.

I don’t mind.

Sometimes I pretend to vote her out
   just to see her "I'm gonna glare now" face.

She calls it strategy;  I call it flirting.

We stay up late
   writing messages in the sand
   that the waves keep stealing.

But every morning,
   somehow,

   one little word makes it across.

Maybe it’s a ding.

Maybe it’s a meme.

Maybe it’s just—

"Still here."

Still playing.

Still waiting for the boat—
            _not_ to leave…

                  to *land*.

(merge soon)