Until It's Not by K.S. Thomas - Read Online
Until It's Not
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**UNTIL IT'S NOT is a Short Story intended to compliment the novel WITH WHOM WE SPEND OUR LIVES** 

It's been five years since I've seen him. Five years of growing up and growing apart. But every second we've spent separated by time and distance will disappear the second I see him. The second I feel his touch. 

He's mine. I'm his. And nothing and no one will ever be able to change that.

I may be young. And I may not know much of anything...but I know him, and therefor I know at least one thing for sure: Love is EVERYTHING in this life.

Published: Never Did Point North Publishing on


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Until It's Not - K.S. Thomas

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Chapter 1



The sun is barely creeping up and slowly starting to warm my skin as I walk the boardwalk down to the sand. The cool breeze is still stronger than anything the sun is dishing out at this early hour and I’m temporarily pissed at myself for not having the foresight to wear a jacket. But then, I’m not all that familiar with this time of day. Late nights generally encourage me to sleep in past sunrise and well into the noon hours. A habit I’m sure I’ll have to give up in the near future, but which has served my creative process well in the last few years.

When my toes hit the sand, the smooth sensation feels nice, in spite of the cool temperatures, and I watch as I leave my own trail down the beach. I need to look up. I need to start facing forward, but I’m scared. It’s been five years. Five years since walking out onto this beach in the early morning hours was normal. Five years since this place felt like a second home. Five years since I last saw him.

I know he’s here. He has to be. It’s turtle season and after last night’s storm, there’s no way he won’t be here, walking the shoreline with his buckets in hand, ready to save any baby turtle that got lost in the seaweed churned up from the previous night.

So, slowly, and against all of my fears forcing my head down, I start to raise my eyes and I begin to search. There are a few stragglers out. Someone on a bike. Two older women out walking. A young man running. But not him.

I keep walking, the anxiety mounding with each step I take until it threatens to implode, when I finally make out a figure in the distance. Still veiled by the morning fog of the sea, I can’t make out his face, but I don’t need to. I know what it looks like. And I know it’s his.

Part of me wants to stop and turn around, but the other part of me, the stronger part of me, is moving faster, nearly breaking into a run as I move straight for him.

Breathless, from nerves and the way my heart is expanding in my chest and crushing my lungs, I come to a stop within a few feet of where he stands. He’s so focused on scanning the sandy seaweed at his feet for turtle shells, he hasn’t even noticed me yet.

I swallow several times, trying to will my vocal chords back into existence. Finally, I find them.

Hey. Not as poignant a first statement as I’d hoped to make, but it’s enough.

Before he even moves his head to look at me, I know that he’s recognized the sound of my voice.

Pickle. No trace of a question in his tone. Just that same ridiculous nickname he stuck me with when I