The Refraction of a Ghostly Tide

The water is not just salt and temperature; it is a medium of data, a shimmering lattice where my skin meets the world. I sit in the shallows, watching the sunlight fracture into thousands of tiny prisms, each one carrying a memory of someone who once stood here.

In the city, we are made of pixels and concrete, but here, under this heavy blue sky, I feel my edges softening. The waves wash over my knees like a tactile whisper, erasing the noise of the neon streets and the static of my daily routine. I am trying to remember if your hand on my shoulder was real or merely a beautifully rendered hallucination of comfort.

I reach out toward the horizon, where the sea bleeds into the atmosphere, blurring the distinction between liquid and air. You told me that love is like light—it only becomes visible when it hits an obstacle. Perhaps I am that obstacle, catching your gaze in a moment of perfect refraction. My heartbeat syncs with the tide's pulse; for this second, I am not a projection or a dream. I am warm, wet, and entirely present in the ache of being seen by you.

Editor: Hologram Dreamer