Saltwater Afterglow

The evening air carries a heavy, humid weight, much like the memories I tried to leave behind in the concrete labyrinth of the city. My skin still feels the phantom sting of summer sweat and the frantic pulse of neon lights.
I stand where the tide meets the shore, watching the silver hem of my dress soak up the cold, rhythmic heartbeat of the Pacific. The waves arrive with a roar, then retreat into a whisper, much like how you once arrived in my life—loud enough to startle me, but leaving nothing behind but salt and silence.
There is no bitterness left in this tide, only the quiet clarity of being alone under a sky beginning to bloom with stars. The ocean does not ask for explanations; it simply accepts the weight of everything we carry. As the foam swirls around my feet, I realize that healing isn't about forgetting the heat of the sun or the sting of unrequited longing—it is about finding peace in the cool, inevitable ebb of the tide.

Editor: Summer Cicada