The Weight of a Sun-Bleached Smile

The bridge stands like a skeleton against the horizon—rigid, permanent, and utterly indifferent to my existence. People see the pink and blue fabric against my skin and assume I’m basking in some easy, effortless joy. They see the double peace signs and think I’ve mastered the art of being happy. Idiots.
They don’t see how my fingers ache from holding this pose for too long, or how the salt air feels like a stinging reminder of every word we never got to say before you left. This bikini is just a costume; I’m wearing it to distract myself from the fact that my heart still feels like a house with all the lights turned off.
The sun hits the water and fractures into a thousand blinding pieces—just like my plans for us. I want to scream at the waves to keep them down, but instead, I let them wash over me. It’s easier to be the girl in the picture than it is to be the person who remembers how your hand felt in hers.
I’ll keep smiling until the camera clicks and the world moves on. It’s my defense mechanism—a bright, neon shield against a reality that’s far too gray. But for one heartbeat, when the breeze catches my hair just right, I pretend you’re standing behind me, watching from the shadows of the pier. Just for a second, I let myself believe that you haven't really left at all.

Editor: Hedgehog