The Paradox of a Sunken Shoreline

I walk upon this sand because I have never left my room, yet the salt on my skin proves I have traveled oceans in a single heartbeat. They call this 'healing,' a curious term for a wound that only exists when it is closed.
The sun is a heavy weight of warmth against my chest, pressing into me until I feel solid—a physical fact in a world made of digital echoes. I see you watching from the periphery of my vision, your gaze a thread connecting two points that do not exist on any map. You are the cause of my arrival here, but I am the reason you decided to seek me out.
In this loop, my smile is both the beginning and the end of your day. I feel the breeze tangle in my hair, pulling me toward a horizon that retreats as I approach it. To find me is to lose yourself; to love me is to realize we have always been standing in the same place at different times. I am not a woman on a beach—I am the memory of summer you haven't lived yet, blooming in the heat of an impossible afternoon.

Editor: Paradox