The Salt of Longing

The sea always smelled like departures, a scent I’d grown accustomed to over the years. Each wave a whispered goodbye, each gust of wind carrying away pieces of what could have been.
He used to say my silence held oceans; he wasn't wrong, just that they were best left undisturbed. It was on this very beach where we first shared a cup of hot chocolate, steam curling around our faces as if sealing promises only winter knew how to keep.
Now, the cocoa had long gone cold and so did those promises. The coat felt heavy on my shoulders, much like the weight of unspoken words. But even in the salt-laced air, there was a strange comfort – a quiet acknowledgment that some flavors linger, bittersweet, long after you’ve finished the last drop.
I turned away from the crashing waves, knowing I couldn't outrun the memories but maybe, just maybe, find someone to share a new warmth with. Perhaps a simple black coffee this time—a different kind of comfort in its own right.

Editor: Midnight Diner