The Salt of Your Skin Against My Silence

They say the sun is a liar. It promises warmth but leaves you shivering in its shadow once it dips below the horizon, much like how your smile does to me.

The water at my feet feels like cold glass against skin that’s grown too accustomed to air-conditioned rooms and sterile office lights. I hate how easily I let myself be moved by this—this ridiculous scene of gold light hitting ripples while you stand just out of frame, watching with eyes that see through every defense I've spent years building.

Don't look at me like I’m a miracle. It makes my chest ache in a way that feels dangerously close to surrender. My dress is heavy with salt and moisture, clinging to me like the secrets we haven't dared to say aloud yet. You think this moment heals? Maybe it does.

But let’s be clear: I didn't come here for your sentimentality or these poetic sunsets. I came because my city life became a cage of polished steel, and you were the only person who knew how to unlock the door without asking permission. So, keep your soft words and that look in your eyes. Just stay near enough so that when the light dies, I don't have to face the dark alone.

Editor: Hedgehog