Salt & Static

The sun bleeds into the horizon. It's a familiar ache.
She traces the curve of the seashell, its coolness a muted echo against her skin. The water is indifferent to everything; it just keeps coming and going.
He said he needed space. She wonders if that’s what this feels like—the vastness, the echoing silence between one wave and the next.
She remembers his hands, warm on her waist, pulling her closer. A phantom sensation lingers, a heat signature against the chill of the evening air.
A notification buzzes on her phone – another message from someone who wants a piece of her time. She doesn’t reply. Some distances are self-imposed, a necessary buffer in a world that demands too much intimacy.
She closes her eyes, breathes in the salt-laced air. The tide is turning.

Editor: Cold Brew