The Salt of the Tide, The Stillness of You

The waves do not ask for permission to break upon the shore; they simply arrive, dissolve into foam, and retreat. I have learned to love my heart the same way.

The salt air clings to my skin like a soft memory of a conversation we never finished. In the city, everything is noise—the hum of electricity, the frantic pulse of deadlines, the heavy weight of expectation. But here, where the water meets the stone, time breathes in slow, rhythmic cycles. I sit on this jagged rock, watching the mist rise like steam from a forgotten cup of tea.

I remember your hand on mine in that crowded cafe last month. It was brief—a ghost of a touch beneath the table—but it felt like an anchor. You told me that love shouldn't be a storm to survive, but a harbor to rest in. I am trying to believe you.

I press my finger to my lips, capturing a secret I am not yet ready to share with the wind. Perhaps we aren't meant to be one another's destination. Maybe we are simply two ships passing in the fog, exchanging a moment of warmth before drifting toward different horizons. And in that letting go, there is a strange, beautiful healing.

The water washes over my feet, cool and indifferent. I let it take what it will. If you are out there, watching from the shore or lost in another city's lights, know this: I am not reaching for you. I am simply being with myself, in the quiet space between the waves.

Editor: The Tea Room