Salt on the Skin, Static in the Soul

The wind doesn't care for my composure. It tears at my hair and bites into the exposed skin of my shoulders, but I let it. People call this 'freedom,' as if being alone against a crashing tide is some kind of victory. To me, it’s just a way to drown out the noise—the neon hum of the city that never stops demanding something from me.

I stand on these jagged rocks because they are solid. Unlike conversations in crowded bars or the hollow echoes of text messages sent at 3 AM. I wear this green wrap like armor, even though it’s nothing more than fabric against a storm. It's my own personal boundary—a soft barrier between who I am and what they expect me to be.

Then there was him. He didn't come with flowers or rehearsed lines. He came with the smell of rain on asphalt and eyes that saw through every sharp word I used as a shield. When his hand finally touched my waist, it wasn't just heat; it was an anchor. For a second, the coldness I cultivated so carefully cracked.

I hate how easily he does that—making me feel soft when I’ve spent years hardening myself into stone. But as the salt air settles on my lips and his breath warms against my neck, I realize that maybe healing isn't about becoming whole again. Maybe it’s just finding someone who likes you enough to let you stay broken for a while.

Editor: Hedgehog