Salt on My Lips, Sun in My Veins

The sun is a heavy gold coin pressing against my eyelids, and I can still taste the brine of the tide on my tongue. It’s that specific kind of morning—the one where the world feels too bright for eyes adjusted to the velvet shadows of a long night. My head is a soft blur, humming with the residue of laughter and the lingering warmth of your hand against mine.

I sit by the pier, my linen dress sticking slightly to my skin from the humidity. The coconut water is cool, but it doesn't do much to quiet the thrum in my chest. It’s been weeks since we fled the city—since the neon lights stopped screaming and started whispering. Now, there is only this: the rhythmic slap of waves against wood, the way your name feels like a secret I keep tucked under my tongue, and this peculiar healing that comes from doing absolutely nothing at all.

You’re watching me from across the sand, your face half-hidden by the glare. We haven't spoken in an hour, but the silence isn't empty; it’s thick with everything we didn't say last night. I take a sip through the straw, feeling the sweetness bloom on my palate. In this hazy light, I realize that maybe love isn't always a grand gesture or a frantic chase. Sometimes, it’s just the quiet courage to stay still in the sun until the world stops spinning.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn