She lived with him by the sea.
There was nowhere else to go. She'd tried. Whenever she had left the area, she began to disappear. She didn't want to find out what happened when she became nothing.
So she stayed.

He was not unkind. In fact, he was gentle. She felt safe and loved. He was the only person she ever saw. His eyes were like the water that neighbored them: gray and still. He never touched her because she didn't want him to. Sometimes he would leave for days. For a time he used to tell her about where he had gone, but after a while his stories began to visibly upset her. She would shake like she was cold and set her jaw, looking at the floor. So he stopped telling them.
They did not sleep in the same bed. She slept upstairs and he slept downstairs with the windows open. The whole place smelled of salt water. It was cold.

Every morning she went to the sea's edge.
Broken seashells feebly cut into her bare feet like babies' teeth. The sky was always gray, she would note as she took off her clothes. Each day she swam as far as her lungs would propel her, and no matter how far she went, breathing heavily, she remained whole. There was a quality to the water that kept her intact.
He never joined her. She didn't want him to. In fact, they rarely spoke. She would come back in the house damp and shivering and slide upstairs without a word. He was often cleaning. They shared the place by the sea, but the sea was hers. She felt a fierce possessiveness over it.