Page 47 of Emerald

Kroaicho's head snaps up, its skin flickering to a curious blue. "Purple shells? Where did you find these?"

I snort, surprised by its sudden, very intense interest. "I don't really remember. It was a long time ago," I admit, shrugging.

The alien's bioluminescence brightens, a light teal spreading across its skin. "You do not remember where you placed something so precious?"

I stare at it, half amused by the intensity of the question. "I was a kid, Kroaicho. It's not like I cataloged every shell I picked up."

It huffs, a sound that almost resembles a scoff. "Humans," it mutters, shaking its head. "Such a disorganized species.”

I snort, giving it a sidelong glance. "And what about you, then?”

“Highly organized,” it says as it grinds its tusks. “You at least remember the story?”

“Oh, yes,” I say, closing my eyes. “It was a perfect day. The wind was crisp and smelled like salt and was just hard enough to help keep the sand flies from biting. I had built a sand castle, which was glittering in the sun as the tide came in to obliterate it. My mum was mostly ignoring me, talking on the phone to her financial advisor.”

I stop the story there, my stomach suddenly dropping. I hastily try to move the conversation back to more neutral ground. “I bet you've got every shiny rock and shell you've ever found tucked away somewhere, right?"

Kroaicho's eyes narrow, the color of its skin flickering between orange and purple. "Yes, every treasure has a story," it says, every chitter showing its longing for wherever it stashed those items.

I laugh, the tension between us easing for a brief moment. It's a strange feeling, this odd camaraderie forming between us, even if it's laced with snark and frustration.

It still has that longing, dopey look on its face. I think back to what it said about stories and their lost civilization. Nothing about being greedy about purple shells and wanting to know the stories associated with them fits in with what I think about materialism.

Does that mean it keeps me around because it wants to know my… story? My stomach drops again, but this time not from grief, but from a sudden shifting of my world. It wants to know about me? No one asks my story. They just assume.

That I’m weird. Violent. Broken.

There’s a lump in my throat and I try to clear it. Do I get the chance to tell my story? Will it listen?

The warmth bubbling in my gut resurfaces, and I shift uncomfortably, my skin prickling with heat.

Not now. Not again.

I steal a glance at Kroaicho, who's now sitting quietly across from me, its skin dimmed to a soft white-blue mix, a sign of amusement and confusion. The alien hums softly to itself, seemingly content for the moment. But as I watch it, the strange sensation inside me only intensifies. My arms itch, my skin feels too tight, and the warmth pooling low in my stomach refuses to go away.

I bite my lip, trying to ignore the rising heat in my body, the way my breath is coming in shallow bursts. Why is this happening? I've never felt this way before. Nothing to this depth—certainly not around anyone, let alone an alien—and it's starting to mess with my head.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the sensation to disappear. I need to get a grip. Whatever this is, it's just some weird biological reaction. It has to be. It doesn't mean anything.

It might listen to your story, the most critical part of my mind warns me,but ninety-nine percent chance it will judge you.

That number hurts my stomach, but it doesn’t help dispel the arousal. No matter how hard I try, the heat lingers, buzzing beneath the surface like a constant hum, growing more persistent the longer I sit here.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Kroaicho stirs, its attention drifting away from me as it rises to its feet. Its skin flashes white with a hint of blue, a combination I haven't seen before, and I'm not entirely sure what it means.

Without a word, it moves toward the entrance of the cave, its long limbs carrying it out into the open air. I watch as it pauses by its pile of knick-knacks, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my racing heart, and the strange, unwelcome warmth spreading through my body.

I let out a shaky breath, dropping my head into my hands. I think I’d rather be throttling the life out of bugs right now. I let out a bark of a laugh.

“Of course I would,” I mutter.

My eyes return just in time to watch Kroaicho slink out of the cave, its long limbs moving with an eerie grace. Even with its size, it's nearly silent, the soft scrape of claws against stone the only sound marking its departure. As soon as it's gone, the cave seems to grow colder, and more oppressive. I wrap my arms tighter around my knees, willing myself to ignore the uncomfortable heat still buzzing beneath my skin.

What the hell is wrong with me? The question loops through my mind, but no answer comes.

I’ve asked that question every day of my life.

But there's nothing natural about this. I'm human, for crying out loud. This isn't supposed to happen. Certainly not with an alien like Kroaicho. The thought sends a fresh wave of frustration through me, and I push myself up, pacing in tight circles around the cave.

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