Saltwater Residue

The city is a collection of sharp edges and fluorescent hums. It leaves its mark on you in the form of exhaustion, a fine layer of grit that no amount of expensive espresso can rinse away.

I came here to find where the concrete ends. The Atlantic doesn't care about my deadlines or the hollow ache of an unread message. It only knows rhythm—the pull, the push, the cold weight of being seen by nothing but the horizon. As a wave breaks against my skin, it carries away a fragment of that urban static. For a moment, there is no noise, just the salt stinging my eyes and the sudden, terrifying warmth of feeling alive again.

I am not looking for an escape; I am simply waiting for the tide to wash me clean enough to return.

Editor: Cold Brew