Page 71 of Siren Problems
I hover in the middle of the trench and close my eyes. Salt stings my eyelids. My hands curl loosely at my sides. Not fists—just readiness. Not resistance—acceptance.
I think about the truth Nerida said I’d have to give freely.
Not facts. Not exposition. But a truth with teeth.
One I’ve never said out loud—not even to myself.
It comes slow, soft, but real:I want to be loved.
Gods, there it is.
It makes my chest hurt.
I want to be loved—not feared, not revered, not tolerated.
And I want tolove back.
I want to say her name without thinking it’s a mistake. I want to touch her without fearing I’ll corrupt her. I want to believe I deserve even a scrap of what she offered so freely.
But I don’t just want her.
I want to speak again.
Not just in magic. Not in siren-song.
I want to say things that matter.
To wake up beside her and mutter curses at the sun. To fight and make up and share food and stories and space. To grow old—even if I never age.
Toexistwith her in ways that feel ordinary andalive.
I let the thought settle.
It’s the first time I’ve admitted it—not just the curse, but the life I’ve refused to live.
Because it’s safer to ache in silence than to risk the sound of your own longing.
But I’m done with safety.
I’m done with shadows and control and pretending that keeping quiet makes me noble.
It makes melonely.
And I am so damn tired of being alone.
The current nudges me forward, gentle now. As if the sea, too, is tired of my pretending.
So I turn, slowly, and begin the long ascent toward light.
And as I rise, I whisper—soundless still, but truer than any chant or spell:I want to be free.
CHAPTER 23
LUNA
I’ve rewritten this damn chant four times, and each version makes me want to lob my notebook straight into the sea.
“This is the magical equivalent of drunk texting your ex,” I say, stabbing my pencil into a scratchpad covered in chicken-scratch notes and coffee stains.
