The Salt on Your Skin, The Silence Between Us

The air is thick with the scent of damp stone and distant ozone, a heavy humidity that clings to my skin like an old memory. I walk slowly toward the water's edge, the white linen shirt slipping off my shoulders—a fragile shield against a world too loud for its own good.
I remember how we used to stand here in silence, your shoulder barely brushing mine. We were two ghosts haunting our own youth, speaking only through sighs and shared glances that never quite met eyes. I can still feel the ghost of your breath on my neck from three summers ago—a warm current in a cold city.
Now, as I dip my toes into the cool ripple of the pool, the bitterness is sweet. It tastes like unsaid goodbyes and coffee gone cold at 3 AM in an apartment that always felt too large for one person. My skin still carries the faint heat of midday sun; it feels as though you are standing just behind me, your presence a subtle vibration in the atmosphere.
I close my eyes to hear the cicadas screaming their brief lives into existence. I am not waiting anymore—not exactly. But as water laps at my ankles and wind stirs the white fabric around my hips, I realize that healing is simply learning how to be lonely together across time and space.

Editor: Summer Cicada