Where the Light Always Finds Us

The city had become a series of deadlines and flickering fluorescent lights, a rhythm that left me feeling like an echo of myself. I didn't tell him why I needed to leave; he simply packed the bags and drove until the smell of asphalt was replaced by salt spray and old pine.
Standing here at the edge of this coast, with the lighthouse keeping its silent vigil behind me, I feel a kind of stillness that scares me just as much as it comforts me. The wind is cool against my skin, but his gaze—steady and knowing—is warmer than any sun.
I look back over my shoulder, not because I’m unsure where to go, but because I want him to see the woman who finally stopped running. There is a subtle electricity in our silence; it's an invitation without words. He doesn't rush me. He knows that healing isn't a sprint—it's this slow breath between waves.
I can feel his presence closing the distance, and for the first time in years, I don’t want to be anywhere else but here: vulnerable, seen, and deeply loved.

Editor: Willow