The Saltwater Archive of Unspoken Vows

The tide has a way of erasing footprints, but it cannot wash away the hum beneath my skin—a low-frequency ache that feels like home and heartbreak intertwined. I walk along this shoreline not to find myself, but to lose the weight of city lights in the vastness of grey water.

My white linen shirt catches on a passing breeze, a fragile cocoon against the spray. Each step is heavy with memories from our apartment back in town: the way your coffee steam would blur my vision every morning at 6 AM, and how we used to share silence like it was a secret language only we could speak.

People call this healing, but perhaps it's just an inventory of what remains. The sand clings to my toes, grounding me in the present while my mind drifts back to your hands on mine—rough from work yet infinitely tender when they touched my face. I am learning that love isn't always a fire; sometimes, it is this steady warmth beneath my ribs as I watch the horizon dissolve.

I stop for a moment, letting the cold foam kiss my ankles. In this space between land and sea, there are no deadlines or expectations—only the soft rhythm of breathing. If you were here with me now, we wouldn't need words to tell our story; it would be written in the salt on our skin and the way we leaned into each other against the wind.

Editor: Lane Whisperer