The Fracture in White Marble and Blue Saltwater

I broke the glass last Tuesday. Not with a hammer, but by simply letting go of it while my hands were shaking too hard to hold on.

Now I am here, standing in the salted water where time moves like thick honey. The column beside me is white marble—cold and perfect—but the sun hitting my skin feels like liquid fire pouring over old wounds. Every cell remembers this warmth before it ever learned about his cold silence.

The sea tastes of iron and forgiveness. I raise a hand to tuck hair behind an ear that no longer listens for excuses, only waiting for him to call me again so the fractured pieces can align just right.

Editor: Kaleidoscope