Three and a half years I sat on that beach, never missed a day. Three and a half years I was there from 7 to 8, sometimes bringing my journal, sometimes my star charts, sometimes just myself. Three and a half years he was there from 7 to 8, sometimes bringing his paints, sometimes just his sketchbook. Three and a half years we shared that five-mile stretch of beach we each called our own. Three and a half years I hated him for stealing it from me. Three and a half years I ignored him. Three and a half years I was wrong.

Who knows why, to this day I still can’t fathom it, but it was Friday the thirteenth when, after three and a half years of sharing the same five-mile stretch of beach, he approached me. I was completely unprepared for it. Stunned actually. And angry, I was angry. Why, after three and a half years, would this boy, that I didn’t even know, approach me? I was unapproachable; everyone said so. And yet, after three and a half years, he finally did approach me.

I loathed him. Every part of him. I loathed him from the very beginning. I wasn’t unused to sharing my beach with people. I was actually rather understanding. In the summer people would have parties on the shore… I let them. Once there was another. He was in his early 20s. He lasted a month. At first I didn’t really notice. It was only after a week of him sitting on the same, actually, the only, park bench that I realized he might be a threat to my beach. He lasted a month. Then he disappeared and I never saw him again. Two weeks later his face appeared in the newspapers. Threw himself off a bridge. I just shook my head.

Three years later he showed up. I didn’t take any notice. He’d only last a month. But one month came and went he was still there. Two came and went. Then three. Then four. Freshman year came and went and still, he was there. Every night, just like me. From 7 to 8, just like me. I loathed him. Every part of him. He took my beach away, right out from under me. For three and a half years it had been mine. All mine. And then he showed up, claiming part of it for himself. Well, he could have it, just so long as he didn’t cross into my three and a half miles. I had the better part anyways. Father from the real world and that was why I came. So I could escape.

I loathed him for it. And yet, I couldn’t help but be slightly intrigued, in a loathing sort of way. He understood a part of me that hardly anyone even knew about. He felt the pull of the ocean, the call of the skies. He was there, every night, just as I was. And for this reason he probably understood me, or part of me, better than anyone else. But I loathed him for it, this connection we shared.

I wanted to be special. I wanted to be the only one with a beach of their own. I wanted to be the only one who knew about the wonders of my beach. I wanted them all for myself. But he found them, and enjoyed them, and stole them from me. The tide pool that was only visible the first Friday of every month. The underwater cave that, ironically, was only ever visible on Friday the thirteenth, who knows why. Not I. I used to say it was magic. My little beach was magic, but now it’s not mine. It’s his too. He stole it from me. Now it is ours. We share it. Or we did, until he crossed into my half.

He left his half and wandered into mine, not by accident. That made me loathe him even more. He’d already taken half my precious beach and now he was contaminating the rest with his ugly footprints. I loathed him for it. Every part of him, but especially his feet. The next day, a Saturday, was the first time in seven years that I had ever missed a night. I loathed him for it. He had taken my beach, my precious, wonderful, magical beach. All of it. And I loathed him for it. But mostly, I loathed myself… for giving in… for giving up my beach without a fight. The next day, a Sunday, was the second time in seven years that I had ever missed a night, and the first time in seven years that I missed two nights in a row. I loathed myself for it.

But he wasn’t triumphant when I made my shameful return. No, he could’ve rubbed it in my face. Could’ve refused to relinquish my half. Could’ve given me the bad half, the half that used to be his only half. But no, for a week he didn’t do a thing. He was still there, every night, form 7 to 8, just like me. But he never mentioned it. Mentioned how I deserted my beach. Mentioned how weak I was. He could’ve loathed me like I loathed him… like I loathed myself, but he didn’t. He held himself responsible, and that was even worse.