Mermaids in Miami
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 7: Naida’s Awakening
Brian returns the next day. And the three days after that.
Every morning, just after the aquarium lights brighten and the first visitors arrive, Naida hears the familiar splash from above. Her heart leaps every time. Nerissa groans every time.
Today is no different. The moment Brian slips beneath the surface, Naida darts toward him in a swirl of silver and bubbles. She circles him twice before he even has time to adjust his mask.
‘You’re ridiculous,’ Nerissa mutters from across the tank.
‘He came back,’ Naida replies, unable to hide her delight.
Brian waves, sending a stream of bubbles upward. Naida waves back, then swims close enough to tap his mask again. She can tell by the way his shoulders shake that he’s laughing, and he gently taps her forehead in return.
The touch sends a warm flutter through her chest. A strange and confusing flutter. She backs away, startled by her own reaction.
Brian tilts his head, concerned. He gestures slowly, asking if she’s alright. Naida nods quickly, though her thoughts are anything but calm.
‘What’s wrong?’ Nerissa asks, drifting closer.
‘Nothing,’ Naida insists.
‘You look like you swallowed a jellyfish.’
‘I’m fine.’
But she isn’t fine. Not exactly, but it isn’t something she is able to name. Every time Brian smiles, something warm and fizzy stirs inside her. She watches the way he moves, the way he looks at her, the way he tries to communicate without words. She finds herself mimicking his gestures, copying the way he tilts his head or shrugs his shoulders.
She finds herself wanting to be near him.
Today, Brian brings something new: a small waterproof slate and a marker. He writes a word on it, then shows it to her.
BRIAN
Naida beams. She taps her chest. ‘Naida,’ she says using the telepathic link between them.
He writes NAIDA beneath his own name, then draws a little heart next to it.
Naida doesn’t know what the symbol means, but she likes the shape. It makes her feel warm.
Nerissa swims over, squinting at the slate. ‘What is that supposed to be?’
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