Sandpaper.

My throat, my chest, my lungs. They feel like sandpaper.

The skin on my lips is sharp and jagged like slate. And my tongue—even my tongue is dry.

I try and cough but it tears through me like a blunt dagger and I end up wheezing like someone who has chain smoked for sixty years. Why is everything so dry?

There's pain in my left arm.

Why is there pain in my arm?

It aches—or does it sting?

My eyes flicker to the left and I see it—right at the top of my arm, millimetres away from my shoulder. A gash about 10cm long, outlined in sticky congealed blood. There's something stuck to it too—like a fine grain.

Dirt?

It's sort of beige in colour and twinkles in the light—like ground down crystal.

Sand?

Why is there sand stuck to my arm? Why have I been bleeding?

I roll my head upwards and realise I'm laying down—although sprawled out is probably more accurate. My fingers and toes are buried in this warm sand but something tells me this isn't for therapeutic purposes.

My toes.

I'm sure I had been wearing Converse. I've lost my shoes.

Did I do drugs?

My Aunt would never have condoned it. Did I meet someone in the airport? Did I get spiked?

I pull myself up so that I'm kneeling and I wince. My neck is stiff. I feel like I have whiplash—was there a car accident?

When I finally focus on my surroundings, all I can see is the sea. A thick layer of never-ending bottle-green. It's beautiful—like glass.

But this doesn't really look like the beach. Where are the sandcastles and the windbreaks? There are no lifeguards or surf boards or children bobbing around with armbands on. In fact, there's nobody here at all.

I look closer. There are foreign objects bouncing in amongst the waves, breaking the idyllic view. Huge chunks of debris and other variously coloured objects—but what exactly? And why?

I'm knelt right on the shoreline and for the first time I realise that I'm soaking wet. My thin jersey t-shirt clings to my skin and my jeans are heavy on my legs. They're torn across my right shin—a large jagged hole. Not the fashionable kind in the knees. There's congealed blood there too.

The instantaneous feeling of panic is nearly overwhelming. I have no recollection of arriving here or sustaining these injuries or evidently going for a swim. I think my eyes should be welling up with anxious tears but those too have dried up—the tear ducts now depleted.

"Jules!" I attempt to call out—hoping my Aunt is suddenly going to appear out of nowhere. A fire burns in my throat, scorching my vocal chords.

"Thank God. You're alive. Someone is alive." A voice responds—thick with relief. But it's not Jules. It's not even female.

I spin around and stagger to my feet—squinting as the sun burns down on me. Its so hot. Too hot. The world spins for a moment but eventually settles on a tall frame with a thick mop of lank hair. There's a cut above his left eyebrow that has dried and matted the dark hairs arching over his eye. His eyes are kind—but they are also panicked and sad.

The t-shirt that I assume was once white is now blood stained and dirty. The left sleeve has been completely torn off and the material is damp and clinging to his skin—much like mine. Dark outlines can be seen through the fabric. Tattoos.

He looks awfully familiar.

Jules used to email me photos of guys she wished she were young enough to date in the hope that I would and she could live through me. Maybe he looks similar to one of them.

I just stare.

"I know that this is probably all very overwhelming right now," he tells me with his hands raised as if he's about to be arrested. "But the plane we were on—it crashed. There was a storm and the engines cut out and we crashed into the sea."

My lips part but I continue to stare.

"I think everyone is dead—apart from us, obviously. We must have washed up here. I think it's completely deserted. Imagine that—a deserted island? Cliché right? We just need Tom Hanks to pop up." He's manically rambling—I think it's shock. That's what they usually say, right?

"I've pulled so many bodies out of the water in the last few hours. I'm so relieved to see somebody alive."

Bodies.

Dead.

Deserted.

His words suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks and I burst into hysterical tears.

I can hear the repetitive chanting of the passenger who had been seated beside me. I can smell the stale vomit. I remember the plane shuddering and the feeling of falling—falling through the sky.

I never made it to Kuala Lumpur.

I won't be spending the Summer in Malaysia.

I think of Jules waiting for me in arrivals. She'll think I'm dead. My parents will think I'm dead. They'll think I perished along with everyone else.

The guy just stares out to sea—twiddling a fabric bracelet on his wrist. I can see the sun glistening off of silent tears that are now racing down his face. There will be people grieving for him too. My eyes lower and I notice there are more tattoos on his arms—like commemorative patches. They're not exactly intricate designs or carefully sketched masterpieces—they're doodles, as if someone was let loose with a Sharpie. I catch sight of the multiple metal bands wrapped around his long, slender fingers—somehow not lost in all the commotion.

I realise then that I know exactly who he is.

"You're Harry Styles." I croak—another layer of my throat torn away.

"Yep." He says quietly. He runs a hand through his hair but his fingers meet salty matted locks and become stuck.

I walk away from him and begin to pace up and down the shore. I can't remember the last time I went to the beach and now can't help but think that if I ever get away from here—it won't quite hold the same connotations. The sun is unforgivingly hot and I wouldn't be surprised if I was beetroot red by now. I never did fair well against the sun—I have my mother's pale complexion to thank for that. If I thought I was out of my depth during the crash then I'm absolutely screwed now. I start to cry again.

This was not the plan. This wasn't meant to happen—I'm not supposed to be here. I bury my face in my hands and am surprised when an arm winds around my shoulders—pulling me into a tight grip. We stand like this for a while, Harry never loosening his grip and I think perhaps it's more for his benefit than it is mine. He's trying to hold it together just as much as I am.

"What's your name?" He asks. I drop my hands from my face and look out to sea—it doesn't seem right that it's so beautiful. A prison shouldn't be so easy on the eye.

I consider Harry's question—what does it really matter what my name is? I'll just be considered as one of the many passengers who unfortunately lost their lives that day. Soon I'll be a number in a news report and a history lesson.

"Sarah." I finally tell him. We must look a right pair—blood stained and blotchy staring out to sea. Not that anyone will be observing. Harry takes a breath from beside me—it catches in his throat.

"Sarah, we have got to do whatever it takes to get out of this mess."

I turn to look at him, forgetting the stiffness in my neck and wince for what feels like the hundredth time since I opened my eyes. "Harry, I might have seen Cast Away but I don't have the first clue as to how to survive on a deserted island."

It's embarrassing just saying it—Deserted Island. It sounds like it should belong on the blurb of a book or the script for a movie, not an event now permanently etched on the timeline of my life.

This shouldn't be real.

"I don't care." He says firmly. "I'm not dying here and neither are you."