To the Lighthouse (fiction)

We walk arm in arm along the rocky shore. I point out the lighthouse, its light wavering in the distance. “Can we go?” you ask. I smile, and pull you along. We hop from rock to rock as the waves crash around us, droplets of water struggling to find somewhere, anywhere to hold on to but failing, falling all around us only to be thrust up again with the next surge, and I wonder if there's a metaphor here I'm missing. There's an apology I keep feeling I owe you, but before I can remember it we arrive at the lighthouse, a gleaming tower with a candy cane swirl. “Race you,” you say, sprinting ahead into the tower. I run after you into the cool darkness and hear your laughter echoing up and down the stairs, see your smile in the dust motes that dance in the moonbeams. The wind carries me up, up, to the top of the tower, but you are gone. I sit on the edge of the tower, my legs dangling out into nothing and my chin resting on the iron railing, cold and real. The light stops turning, focusing its rays on a single point out in space. I stare and stare, and when I close my eyes I can see a purple afterimage of you on the lids, so close, and I wonder how long it's been since I last saw you, how long I've been waiting up on this tower for you, and if I'll ever have the courage to come back down.