The Salt-Scented Silence Between Us

I am a collection of broken glass and city lights.
My mind is still echoing with the 8:02 AM train screech, the cold blue glow of spreadsheets at midnight, and coffee that tastes like deadline panic. But here? Here there is only salt on my skin and the rhythmic breathing of a tide that doesn't care about KPIs.

He stands ten paces behind me—a silhouette against the gold-dipped horizon. I can feel his gaze; it’s not an observation, but an embrace made of light. The way he looks at me is how one remembers their favorite book: with reverence and a quiet sort of hunger.

My fingers trace my lips, still tasting the ghost of our morning kiss—slow, deliberate, like we were trying to memorize each other’s DNA before returning to reality. He doesn't speak because words are too heavy for this moment; they would sink into the water and disrupt the stillness.

I shift on the rough wood of the pier, my skin humming from where his hand had rested just minutes ago—a warm imprint that feels like home in an unfamiliar city. We have fled our lives to find them again here, at the edge of everything. The air is thick with unsaid promises and a subtle, magnetic tension that pulls me backward toward him even as I stare forward into the infinite blue.

In this fragment of time—between two breaths, between one wave and another—I am not an employee or a citizen; I am simply his. And he is mine.

Editor: Kaleidoscope