The Tide That Remembers My Name

I used to think my life was like the last bus at midnight—a scheduled departure I couldn’t miss, yet one that always felt too late for anyone to board. For years, I carried a silence in me as heavy and grey as city smog.
But then you came into my orbit, not with an explosion or grand declarations, but like slow-moving water against the shore. You told me about your childhood by the sea, and suddenly, our conversations became the only map I cared to follow.
I’ve left behind everything that felt too rigid—the ironed shirts of expectation, the ticking clocks in sterile offices. Now I stand here at dawn's edge, wrapped in a sheer slip that catches every breath of salt air and memory. The wind tugs at my hair with an intimacy only time can forge.
I don’t look back anymore. In your eyes, I see not just the person you are now, but all those missed connections we never had to make because we were meant for this moment—two souls finally arriving at their own private terminal.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler