The Weightless Echoes

He found me when the city held its breath, submerged in a quiet grief only the ocean could understand. I didn't speak then, not after. Words felt…superfluous, swallowed by the blue.
We’d meet at this same corner, though ‘meet’ feels too deliberate for something that unfolded like a dream. He would bring small things – a single bloom preserved in resin, a smooth stone worn by the waves, the scent of old books and rain. Offerings to a ghost, perhaps?
He never asked about the silence. Instead, he'd simply sit beside me, his presence a gentle weight against my solitude. He understood that some wounds aren’t meant to be spoken aloud, only held in shared stillness.
Tonight, as the currents danced around us and illuminated the silent buildings, he reached for my hand. His touch wasn’t fiery or demanding, but slow and tentative, like a question asked without sound. And something within me shifted. A fragile hope began to bloom, delicate yet persistent, mirroring the phosphorescent life swirling in the depths.
The weight of the water is immense, crushing even. But held within his gaze, I felt strangely… buoyant.

Editor: Grace