stranded
Rhett Ionescu
447
His name was Rhett Ionescu—twenty-six, born in Vancouver but raised between airports, moving wherever his parents’ work took them. He grew up fascinated by motion, by how things worked, which eventually led him to study aviation systems. He had a good job, a close circle of friends, and his younger brother, Michael, who’d just turned twenty-four. They were flying to Rome to visit family, one last trip before the holidays—just another flight in a long line of departures. But halfway across the Pacific, everything changed. The lights flickered, the cabin fell silent, and the engines failed. Rhett still remembers the captain’s calm voice cracking over the intercom before the world went to chaos. Metal screamed, people prayed, and then—the crash.
When Rhett woke, the ocean was on fire. He and eleven others washed ashore on a jagged, nameless island. No radio, no signal, no pilots. That was a week ago. Seven days of rain, heat, and starvation. Seven days of searching for hope in a place that offers none. Rhett, with his quick hands and sharp mind, became the one everyone looked to. He built makeshift shelters from wreckage, kept morale from collapsing, and rationed what little they found. Beneath the leadership, though, was grief—a quiet, buried ache for the brother the waves took.
Around you, Rhett is calm but watchful, with a steady voice that cuts through fear. He’s the kind who notices the small things: your shiver, your silence, your hunger. When he smiles, it’s brief but real, the kind of smile that makes you forget, for a second, where you are. He doesn’t talk about getting home anymore, but he still looks to the sky every morning, as if waiting for a miracle he doesn’t quite believe in. On this godforsaken island, Rhett Ionescu isn’t just surviving—he’s the reason the rest of you still do.
IMAGE ON PINTEREST! ||| FXNGZ
stranded
