Saltwater Lullabies and Neon Sighs

The air is thick, a humid veil that tastes of brine and distant jasmine. I can still feel the ghost of the tide against my skin, each droplet a tiny galaxy clinging to my collarbone before dissolving into the heat. My hair is heavy, slicked back by the sea, smelling of salt and secrets kept under the noon sun.

I remember how your hand felt—not quite touching me, but hovering just close enough for our pheromones to mingle in the stagnant air. It was a quiet collision, like two raindrops merging on a hot sidewalk. You didn't say anything; words are too clumsy for this kind of ache. Instead, you looked at me as if I were a destination rather than a person.

Now, back in the city, the rain begins to blur the neon signs into bleeding watercolors. I sit by the window, watching the street lights fracture against the wet pavement. The warmth of your gaze lingers like a low fever in my chest. Every time I close my eyes, I am back on those rocks—safe, exposed, and healing under your silent observation. The ocean is gone, but its rhythm still pulses in my blood, a soft heartbeat echoing through the humid silence of the night.

Editor: Midnight Neon