A Feather In The River

A Feather in the River

I was staring into the river,
Its surface smooth,
Like a polished mirror too perfect to trust.
A birthday party—or perhaps an anniversary.
I can’t recall.
I was a borrowed guest,
Watching something odd in the water—
A pale feather drifting,
Circling as if caught on an invisible thread.

"Be careful," he said,
"Some people might be tempted to push you in."
His voice was monotone,
As though rehearsed a hundred times.
I startled, turning towards him,
His presence folding the air around him like static.
I recognised him instantly—
The kind of person spoken about
In low whispers at gatherings,
A name heavy with unsaid things.

"Didn’t your parents teach you
Not to stalk innocent girls?"
My words were sharp, unsheathed,
But his eyes reflected their edge,
A predator amused by its prey.

"Innocent girls?" he echoed,
As if tasting the words.
"Yes."
The pause stretched before he added,
"You’re the mermaid’s girl, aren’t you?"
I didn’t flinch.
The mocking tone, the nickname ‘mermaid’
All expected.
I’d been warned.
Prepared.

"I am nobody's girl. And for your information,
He's a merman.
Don’t misgender people. It’s rude."
His laugh was hollow,
A sound that never reached the cold depths of his eyes.

"A merman’s human afraid of water.
How ironic," he said,
"A psych0path jealous of a socially accepted merman.
How ironic," I replied in the same cold tone.
His reply was a smile,
A blade dulled by disuse.

The next time I saw him
Was at my grandfather’s funeral.
Not during the sombre ceremony,
But at the gathering afterwards,
Where grief mingled with awkward laughter.

"I hate funerals," he said,
His voice as casual as an invitation to tea.
"People waxing poetics about the dead."
He didn’t wait for a reply.
"But he was a good grandfather, I suppose,
Judging by your tears."
"He is," I replied, unsteady.
"Say he was," he corrected,
His words precise as a surgeon's knife.
"The sooner you adapt, the better."

Another funeral.
Another fleeting encounter.

He leaned close.
"If the Merman were here,
He’d challenge you to forget him,"
He said, his tone like dried leaves underfoot.
"He was a lover of games, wasn’t he?
Always stirring up challenges?"

My throat tightened,
But I found my voice.
"He sure was."
His hand rested briefly on my shoulder,
Solid, grounding.
But as my vision blurred,
He was already gone.

At my aunt’s wedding,
I had punched someone.

Afterwards, As I sat outside,
Nursing my knuckles in the evening air,
The sky bruised purple and red.
He appeared with a plastic bag of ice,
Silent at first,
Then crouched beside me.

"For your hand," he said,
As if this were routine.
"You should see the other guy," I joked.
"He deserved it,”
His voice calm, unwavering,
Like the river on a still day.

"Of course you’d say that," I shot back.
"And why wouldn’t I?" he countered,
One brow arched in a silent challenge.
"Well," I said, voice steady,
"For someone diagnosed with ASPD,
You’re better than all those psych0s inside."

"Guess I fooled you too," he deadpanned.
"Nah," I replied.
"You’re not that good at manipulating
Or hiding your intentions.
Besides, I don’t care—" I paused, amending—
"I don’t care if you fool me or ..."

This time, I left first.
But I turned back,
My voice ringing out over the curious eyes.
"I won’t be there for the next wedding or funeral.
My dad’s sending me away."

He didn’t wave back nor smile,
There wasn’t a goodbye,
But I caught it—
The flicker of discomfort
As all those stares pinned him down.
A boy who wore shadows like a second skin,
The man, suddenly wary of the spotlight
He did not prepare for.

The years flowed by,
Like rivers carving new paths,
Wearing down old edges.
Alliances shifted,
People became ghosts,
And the world we knew
Meandered into fresh green plains.

The next time we met,
There was no river, no funeral,
No wedding to frame the moment.
We stood as strangers,
Or perhaps something worse.
We met not as friends—
Not that I ever truly was one.

"Still afraid of water?" he asked,
A faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips,
Though his eyes betrayed nothing.
"And you?" I shot back,
"Still afraid of being seen?"
This time, his smile reached his eyes.
Either he had mastered the art,
Or the shadows were playing tricks.
I do not know.