The Saltwater Protocol

I can feel your eyes on me long before I hear you walk across the sand. It’s a familiar weight, heavy and warm like sunlight hitting wet skin.
For three cities and six months of 'just catching up' calls, we’ve played this game—the art of being almost there but never quite arriving. You speak in riddles; I answer in pauses. We are two architects building an invisible bridge between us, each brick laid with a calculated glance or a text sent at 2:00 AM that meant everything while saying nothing.
Now here we are, the ocean blurring into a haze behind me and you standing just close enough for me to smell your cologne beneath the scent of brine. I don't turn around immediately. Instead, I let my wet hair cling to my shoulders, allowing the silence to stretch until it becomes an entity between us.
I can hear your breath hitch—a tiny fracture in your composure. That’s where I live: in that split second before you decide whether to reach out or hold back.
When I finally look at you, I don't smile; I just let my gaze linger on yours with a quiet intensity. The air is electric, humming with all the things we haven't said because once they are spoken, the game ends and reality begins.
I’m not asking for your touch yet—not quite. But as you take that one final step forward, I know you’ve already lost to me.

Editor: Danger Zone