We took a boat to Alcatraz on our last day in San Francisco. A touristy, cliché thing to do, sure, but we’d somehow convinced ourselves it was a great idea. Maybe it was the irony of it, heading to a prison together, or maybe it was just the idea of escaping the city for a little while—escaping everything, even though we never really could.
He was unusually calm that day. No leg bouncing, no fingers drumming, no constant commentary about everything we passed. It threw me off balance. When he wasn’t buzzing, I felt like something was missing, like the stillness wasn’t natural. But I kept my mouth shut. Sometimes silence was safer with us.
We acted like a normal couple on that boat ride. Mature, even. He took my hand, his thumb absently tracing circles on my palm as we leaned over the railing, letting the cold, salty air whip through our hair. It was almost… sweet. A version of us I didn’t recognize but desperately wanted to keep. I let myself pretend for a moment that this was who we were—stable, happy, like all the couples taking selfies around us.
He pulled out a disposable camera and insisted we document the day. He kept snapping pictures of me when I wasn’t looking, laughing when I’d turn and catch him, my hair a tangled mess from the wind. I took photos of him too—grinning like a kid, squinting into the sun, looking so carefree it almost broke me.
There was something so silly, so innocent about the whole thing. Us, pretending to be normal. Acting like we weren’t constantly teetering on the edge of something darker, something we didn’t dare name. It felt like a lie, but it was a lie I wanted to live in, just for a little while.
And yet, even in the middle of all that lightness, there was a weight I couldn’t shake.
Because I knew. I always knew.
He wasn’t committed to me. Not really. Not in the way I needed him to be. He was there, in the moment, but his mind? His heart? They were always half a step out the door, chasing something I couldn’t compete with.
But fuck, I needed him. I needed him so badly it felt like drowning, like I was clawing for air and he was the only one who could save me. And the worst part? I wanted him, too. Wanted him in a way that consumed me, that left me raw and exposed and aching for something I knew I’d never fully have.
He was my prison. I hated that about him, and I loved it at the same time.
Alcatraz stood there in the distance, cold and gray and imposing, and all I could think was how much he reminded me of it. He kept me locked in, trapped in this never-ending cycle of highs and lows, of wanting more and knowing I’d never get it. But there was comfort in that kind of consistency, too. Even when it hurt, even when it wasn’t enough, it was there. He was there.
And maybe that’s why I couldn’t let go. Because even though he was my prison, he was also my sanctuary. The one place I could go and know exactly what to expect, even if it wasn’t ideal.
He pulled me close as we docked, his arm slung around my shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. I leaned into him, letting myself sink into the moment, into the warmth of him. I didn’t ask him where his mind was, didn’t push for reassurance I knew he wouldn’t give.
Because with him, it was always like this—holding onto what I had, even while knowing it could never be enough.
We walked through the prison together, cracking jokes about how we’d never survive if we’d been locked up there, how we’d drive each other insane in a cell. It was light, playful, and I let myself believe, just for that hour, that we weren’t broken. That maybe we could be something more than what we were.
But when the tour ended, and we got back on the boat, the weight came rushing back. I stared out at the water, watching the city grow closer, and wondered if he felt it too—the knowing, the ache, the inevitability of us.
Because that’s what he was to me: inevitable. A prison I could never escape, and maybe didn’t even want to.
And as much as I hated it, as much as it made me want to scream, there was something about that inevitability that I loved. Something about the way he held me captive that made me feel alive, even when it hurt.
I turned to him, and he was watching me, his expression unreadable. “What?” I asked, my voice softer than I meant it to be.
He shook his head, smirking just a little. “Nothing,” he said, leaning back in his seat. But I saw it—the flicker of something in his eyes.
