The jungle had its own kind of quiet tonight. Not peaceful. Heavy. Like it was holding its breath. I was supposed to be collecting more of those big leaves for the roof, but I just… froze. Stood there in the green twilight, listening to things I couldn’t see moving in the shadows.

And it hit me, like a physical blow to the stomach: I’m never going to a party again. No more crowded rooms pulsing with bass, no more sticky-sweet cocktails, no more dancing until my feet hurt in stupid heels. No more stealing glances across a smoky room, feeling that electric thrill when a guy’s eyes linger on my dress. No more sneaking into a bathroom with someone, the lock clicking shut, his hands pushing my skirt up while I bite my lip to keep quiet.

I used to love the game of it. The power of a short skirt, a knowing smile. Letting a stranger’s hand rest on my thigh under a table, feeling his cock get hard through his jeans just from my whisper. I loved being tasted in dark corners, fingered against a wall, coming with a hand over my mouth. It was a game I knew how to win.

Now the only game is survival. And the only person here is my brother. The hunger doesn’t go away, it just… twists. Turns inward. Sometimes I watch him sharpen a stick, and I don’t imagine gentle things. I imagine him pinning me down on the sand, not out of love, but out of sheer, brutal necessity. Like I’m just meat and heat. I imagine him fucking my throat until I gag, using my cunt until it’s sore, coming on my face not as a gift, but as a mark of possession—a brand that says ‘mine’ in a world where we own nothing. I want to be reduced to a function: his relief. It feels like the only honest thing left.

I miss the pretense. I miss the choice. Out here, there is no pretense. Just the two of us, and this raw, ugly, beautiful truth.