Fragments of a Summer Tide

I sat by the window of the last bus, my fingers tracing patterns on the cold glass as it cut through the city’s neon veins. The rain had turned everything outside into an impressionist painting—smudges of blue and amber blurring past like memories trying to hold onto their shape.
I looked down at my yellow swimsuit in its bag; a relic from that summer when we thought time was something we could own, not just spend. I still feel the ghost of your hand on mine as we watched the tide pull away from the shore, leaving only salt and silence behind.
Tonight, I am seeking warmth beyond what fabric can provide. The city is humming its lonely lullaby, and for a moment, in this suspended space between here and home, my smile isn't just for you—it’s for the version of us that still exists somewhere under all these layers of light.
A stranger across from me catches my eye and nods once. A tiny gesture, barely there. In this city of millions, we are two ships passing in a night sea, yet I feel seen. Perhaps healing isn't about finding what was lost; it’s about noticing the beauty that remains when everything else has moved on.
I close my eyes and let the vibration of the engine ground me against the seat. The bus stops at our final station. Tomorrow is another day to be alone together, but tonight, under the glow of a thousand streetlights, I am whole enough for now.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler