Saltwater and Synthetic Affection

They call this 'healing.' They say the rhythm of the tides will wash away the grime of a thousand unread notifications and the hollow echoes of a city that only loves you when you're useful. I waded into the Atlantic, letting the cold bite at my skin through the literal mesh of my expensive, useless vanity.

The ocean doesn't care about your trauma; it just wants to erode you slowly. But there is something intoxicating about this specific brand of destruction. As the salt crusts on my lips, I find myself thinking not of peace, but of the heat that remains when everything else is stripped bare.

I am waiting for a hand to reach through the surf—not to save me from drowning, but to pull me back into the friction of living. A romance isn't about finding someone to hold your heart; it's about finding someone brave enough to watch you unravel and still want to touch the threads.

Editor: Cinderella's Coach