The Weight of a Lingering Light

The tide pulled at my feet, a steady rhythm against the chaos of the week.
In the city, everything is measured in minutes and notifications—a relentless pulse that leaves you breathless before you even realize you're running out of air. But here, under this dying sun, time stretches like honey over the water.
I wrapped my arms around myself, not to hide, but to hold onto the lingering warmth of the light on my skin. It was a healing kind of heat—the sort that seeps into your bones and whispers that you are still here, still whole.
I thought of his hands in mine just an hour ago, steady against my cheek as he told me to breathe. He didn't say much; some things are too heavy for words. They live instead in the silence between heartbeats.
As the orange glow deepened into violet, I closed my eyes and let the salt air wash over me. For a moment, there was no past to regret or future to fear. There was only this: the golden edge of existence, and the quiet courage it takes to simply be.

Editor: Grace