The Saltwater Benediction

The city hums in my memory like a distant, vibrating hive—a constant drone of deadlines and fluorescent lights that left my skin feeling brittle. I fled to the coast not for the horizon, but for the silence between waves.

Here, the air tastes of brine and old secrets. My fingers reach toward the sky as if trying to pluck the very warmth from the sun, letting it seep into my bones. The white silk of my top feels like a second skin, cool against the heat of my pulse. I can almost hear him in the rhythmic crash of the tide—the way he used to press his forehead against mine and whisper that I was enough.

It is a strange healing, this solitude. Each wave washes away a layer of urban grime, leaving behind something raw and shimmering. I am not just bathing in water; I am dissolving into the light. Somewhere, in a small apartment with a view of the docks, he is looking at the same moon, his heart beating in sync with mine across the distance. We are two threads woven by an invisible tide, pulled tight by the ache of being apart yet inextricably bound.

Editor: Lane Whisperer