The Rhythm of a Saltwater Heartbeat

My pulse is no longer mine; it’s a metronome syncing with your footsteps.
I can feel the sudden rush—a warm tide of blood flooding my cheeks as you call my name across this shoreline. My breath hitches, caught in the narrow space between panic and pure electricity. The cold water swirls around my ankles, but I am burning up from within. Every nerve ending is screaming 'now,' every synapse firing with an intensity that makes the world blur into a soft-focus dream.
I don’t look back yet because if I do, you'll see it: the dilation of my pupils, the slight tremble in my fingertips, the way my chest heaves under this white linen shirt. This isn't just walking; it's an escape from three years of gray skyscrapers and silent dinners.
I turn slowly—too slowly—and there you are. My heart does a violent somersault against my ribs, thumping so loudly I’m sure the waves can hear it. The air between us thickens with unspoken promises and old regrets. When our eyes lock, time collapses into a single point of impact; my diaphragm tightens, leaving me breathless yet alive in ways no city street could ever offer.
I smile because it's easier than admitting I’m drowning in you while standing on dry land.

Editor: Heartbeat Monitor