Saltwater Scars and Silk Whispers

The ocean doesn't care about my secrets, so I let it wash over me. People call this 'healing,' but to me, it feels like a deliberate interrogation by the tide. The sand is coarse against my skin—a reminder of every jagged edge I’ve tried to smooth out in the city.

I keep my face neutral, a mask of indifference for anyone who might be watching from the shoreline. They see a girl in turquoise silk enjoying the sun; they don't see the way my pulse quickens when your name flickers like a dying lightbulb in my mind. You were supposed to be the one to pull me out of the gray, yet here I am, drowning in the clarity of blue water.

I bite my lip, tasting salt and suppressed longing. If you saw me now, would you recognize the girl who used to laugh without permission? Or would you only see this curated shell of a woman? You’re probably sitting in some sterile office right now, smelling of expensive coffee and old regrets. I hate how much I want you to walk onto this beach, ruin my composure, and tell me that the silence isn't as lonely as it feels. Go ahead, look at me. See the girl who is trying so hard not to shatter in your gaze.

Editor: Hedgehog