I drag my stick in the sand, curving it to form the top half of the letter 'O'. The 'S' had taken a good ten minutes; having to draw the letter big enough to cover the large surface area of the canvas I had to work with. It was harder than I had predicted, trying to ensure it was large enough to be seen overhead but not too close to the water that it would be washed away when the tide came in.

I've situated myself further down the beach, in the opposite direction to the rock formation and where I'd woken up on the first day. Harry's nowhere to he seen with his man-made spear and garish shorts and I'm honestly grateful.

I feel so stupid about what happened; embarrassed and humiliated at my complete lapse of judgement in an evident moment of weakness and vulnerability. I can't help thinking of the passengers who didn't survive and what their families would think - probably that Harry and I are too busy getting caught up in each other instead of finding a way home to our loved ones.

But I'm also embarrassed about the sting of hurt I felt when he told me he wouldn't kiss me again and then walked away. His change of mood had been like a slap in the face even though I shouldn't really care and the fact that he's one hundred percent correct.

We have to stay focused from now.

I drag my stick again to complete the 'O'. It reminds me of beach holidays with my parents and Jules when my father would create a boat or a car in the sand and I would draw on the finer details like the windows and the headlamps. I can see their faces so clearly in my mind; my mother's golden hair and my father's shocking blue eyes. And then there's Jules; wild, strawberry blonde curls and a mischievous glint in her eyes. My throat burns with the threat of an oncoming sob and I don't think I've ever felt so alone.

With my relationship with Harry now in disarray, I don't have anyone to turn to. Can I still share my worries with him? Tell him about my bad dreams? Can I still cry in front of him and share stories of home? Will he open up to me anymore?

I'm not sure I can survive here without his support and I certainly don't want to turn into Tom Hanks and start personifying inanimate objects. I'm so stupid for crossing with boundaries with Harry.

What was I thinking?

Dark spatters fall across my writing in the sand and I think it's raining until my lower lip wobbles and a sob rips its way out of my mouth. It's loud - almost feral. And more follow.

My stick falls from my grasp and lands in the sand with a gentle thump. My hands immediately clutch at the jersey material clothing my chest as the sobs fall continuously; tearing through my esophagus like a blaze of fire, intent on destroying everything in its path.

I am strong. But I am hurting and lonely and I am afraid.

"Fuck!" I yell agressively. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

I hate this stupid island and I hate the stupid storm that put us here.

I hate this swimsuit that's too small and cuts into my thighs.

I hate the furry layer of coconut that somehow always finds its way into my mouth, no matter how well we de-shell it.

I hate that I'm on one side of the island and Harry is on the other because we messed everything up.

And I can't seem to stop the tears. They run and run and run, dripping onto my feet and into the grooves between my toes. And I'm so mad, so hot in the face, that I'm surprised they haven't evaporated right off of me.

I want to go home so badly, today more than I ever have. More than the first moment I realised I was stranded, when Harry stood before me with raised hands and tried to piece together for me what had happened. For the first time, I hope tonight that Dream Jules is there. Whatever the context; nightmare or dream. I hope to see her face, hope to see someone familiar - to see home.

I blink again and there's nothing. No damp trail or droplet in the sand. I think I'm actually all out of tears. All cried out. Empty. I scrub at my eyes with the back of my hands and take a deep breath.

"Pull it together, Sarah." I tell myself out loud because honestly, apart from cry - what else is there to do here?

I reach down for my stick and grab it firmly before plunging it into the sand just right of my completed 'O'. Grains spit out around it as I start to draw the final letter, the final piece for my plea for help. It's easier than the first two; easier to navigate, easier to communicate onto the sand.

I step back and admire my work. It's hardly a masterpiece, it doesn't even even classify as art - but I'm so pleased with myself. Relieved that I've done something to get us home. I turn my head to the right and stare at the shoreline, enjoying the feel of the gentle breeze combing my hair.

Harry's there somewhere. Splashing around, attempting to catch a fish. I know I have to face him at some point, regardless of how much I don't want to. I don't even know what to say to him and I'm afraid of what he might say to me.

I start in his direction, allowing the stick to trail along behind me and it's not long before his shorts are visible, bobbing around in the waves. His hand is raised with the spear poised in a true caveman-like fashion. As I get closer, I notice his shirt is off; his black ink standing out in stark contrast to the bottle-green water splashing against him. His hair is flat and plastered to his forehead as if he's spent more time underneath the water than above it.

"Hi." I say timidly as I reach the edge of the water. It tickles my feet as it creeps over them before retreating back again.

Harry looks up, wide eyed and startled and drops his spear clumsily into the water. My lips part to apologise for making him jump but he's already turned his attention back to his surroundings and quickly snatches the stick out from the waves.

"Hi." He says eventually but he barely raises his eyes to meet my own and I have to strain my ears to hear him.

I sigh. "Did you manage to catch anything?"

"Does it look like I've caught anything?" Harry snaps sarcastically and gestures around to a non-existent pile of fish. The grip on my own stick tightens.

"Apparently not." I manage to reply through gritted teeth.

I get that things are a bit awkward between us and that he hasn't managed to catch anything but why does he have to be such an arse?

Wasn't it him who said he was going to stay focused?

"Ok, great." He shrugs before turning his back on me and quite obviously pretending to track a fish.

"I wrote SOS in the sand." I say but he doesn't turn. He doesn't even seem to acknowledge that I've spoken. I stand and watch water droplets roll down his back in the hope that he might recognise that I've done something that benefits the both of us. But there's nothing. No response from him to even indicate that he cares.

My eyebrows mash together in annoyance just as Harry launches his stick into the water. It slips from his grasp and pierces the surface like a knife into skin. Hope flutters in my stomach like a butterfly at the prospect of substantial food but as a harsher wave comes in and sweeps the stick from sight, I know it's not good.

"Shit." Harry groans and starts fumbling blindly in the water. He wades further out, the waves now bumping higher up his chest and I can see the frustration written all over his face. He reaches out but grabs empty water; his lips now moving frantically with a continuous string of curse words. The last thing we need is for Harry to lose his beloved pointed stone.

"Let me help." I say quickly and wade out to meet him. I'm shorter than Harry and the water is now resting on my shoulders. It's choppier than it had initially seemed from the shore, probably not helped by our hurried movements in the water.

"I don't need your help!" He snaps at me and dives beneath the surface. I recoil as if I've just been smacked but swallow back my shock and dive down to assist him anyway.

Even without goggles, the water is beautifully clear. I can see all the way to the bottom; can point out each individual reflection of the ripples on the surface above. There's plenty of fish but they scarper the moment Harry and I invade their space; all scattering as if they've bounced off of one another.

The sea bed is lightly decorated with pastel coloured shells and it's at times like these when my surroundings are so naturally breathtaking that I have to remind myself I'm not on holiday - that this was not my destination of choice. I can't see the stick though and I'm about to return to the surface for air when Harry suddenly looms up in front of me. Under the water, with the sun reflecting off of them - his shorts are dazzling. I can just about make out a long narrow object clutched in one of his hands, his knuckles white in the tightness of his grip. He kicks upwards, breaking the surface and I go to follow.

As my head cuts through the water, a wave bounces over me. My mouth opens in surprise and I swallow back a mouthful of sea water, sending myself falling back beneath the surface. It burns my insides, kick starting my adrenaline as I go into panic mode. I know I can swim but I can't catch my breath and suddenly I'm back in my nightmare, frantically kicking and screaming under water with my arms flailing like a fish out of water. If the fish hadn't scattered before, they've certainly scattered now. The prospect of reliving my nightmares seems to paralyse my limbs. It's like I've frozen all over and no matter how much I'm screaming at myself on the inside - nothing is co-operating.

Long fingers suddenly wrap around my left forearm in an iron grip and tug me away from the sea bed. Everything is a blur of green and blue as I'm dragged upwards and I'm still gasping when I break the surface, relieved to find Harry blinking at me, his hair falling in front of his eyes. Waves bump against the sides of our faces and he starts swimming inland, pulling me along with one hand while clutching his stick in the other. I can almost touch the bottom when he finally speaks.

"Jesus Christ, Sarah." He breathes, elongating the words. "There really is never a dull moment with you, is there?"