Half Made of Water

Half Made of Water by Natalia Lakes

(This diary entry was found washed ashore in a green-glass bottle, sealed with wax, nettles, and seaweed.)

They won’t believe me. Not truly.

But I must write it down before the memory softens at the edges. Before it slips into the realm of dreams, where it does not belong. Her face must remain sharp.

It was dusk—three nights past—when the wind dropped too suddenly, and the gulls began their tight, silent wheeling inland. I was just a mile from shore, hauling in an uninspired catch, when I noticed the sea was moving wrong. Not choppy. Not storming. Just... spiraling. As though something vast beneath the surface was breathing in slow, deliberate circles.

Then came the hum.

Not a sound, exactly. A vibration, like the deep-in-the-bone echo of a struck bell, felt behind the ears and down into the spine. I turned—and there she was.

Half in the water. Half made of it.

Her hair unfurled behind her like ink dispersing in milk, moving with a rhythm not governed by tide. Some tendrils curled into perfect spirals—tight as nautilus shells—while others floated loose, like sea grass stirred by a current you cannot see. The water around her shimmered strangely. It did not move like water should.

Her eyes found mine.

And—God forgive me—it was like a hook through the soul.There was something holy in her gaze. And something terribly, terribly hungry.

Every sin I’d ever buried—neatly, guiltily, quietly—unfurled in her presence like scrolls of kelp rising from the seabed. I wanted to cry. I wanted to leap into her arms, to be held like a child in its cradle. But something… something stopped me.

It was the fish.

A small one. Pink. Its fins like torn ribbons, curling and twitching as it circled her shoulder. Its round eyes, absurdly human, were wide with panic. Its mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, soundlessly. I swear to you—it looked at me. Looked at me the way one man looks at another just before the noose tightens.

I bit my tongue. I tasted blood.

“I can see it flickering in your gaze,” she said, her voice folding over itself like silk in water. “That fragile human longing. To be held. To be chosen. To be safe.”She paused, then smiled.“Safety. Isn’t that the cruelest lie of all?”

The fish trembled beside her, its scales glittering with warning. The water pulsed around her like breath, shimmering in impossible patterns.

“This little one,” she said lightly, glancing toward the fish. “Ah, yes. He knows. He’s seen me when the tide rises, when the moon turns blue.”

She laughed, and it sounded like the wind over a field of bones.

“So,” she asked, tilting her head, “will you leave the shore behind?”

“My kisses are cold,” she whispered. “No?”

Then sail back. Forget the shimmer in my hair. Forget how close you came.

And she was gone.

No ripple. No splash. Only the scent of salt and violets remained.

The sea stilled. My nets were empty.

I don’t know how long I stood there. Minutes, hours—time folded in on itself like damp paper.

What I felt was not quite fear. Not entirely.

It was awe.

Awe twisted with the terrible knowledge that I would never be quite right again.