Saltwater Solace

The tide does not ask for permission; it simply arrives, eroding the edges of what I thought were permanent. I sit on this weathered wood, watching the foam dissolve into nothingness. My skin is still damp—a lingering souvenir of the ocean’s baptism.

In the city, we are defined by glass and steel, by the sharp geometry of ambition and the relentless hum of notifications. Here, time is fluid. The salt air acts as a solvent for the noise inside my head. I remember how he looked when we first arrived—his eyes reflecting the grey-blue horizon, searching for something he couldn't name.

He didn't speak much. We let the waves do the talking. But when his hand brushed against mine, it felt like a quiet rebellion against the rush of life back home. It wasn't a grand gesture; it was a small, steady warmth in a vast, cold expanse.

I smile for no one in particular. The camera captures my face, but only he knows the depth behind it—the way I feel healed by his silence. We are two ghosts finding substance in the surf. Tomorrow, we will return to our separate boxes of glass and concrete, but tonight, I carry the ocean's weight and his touch like a secret kept under ice.

Editor: Cold Brew