Salt & Static

The sand still held the ghost of his heat. Not a scorching warmth, precisely, but that particular residue left behind after someone had lingered too long in your orbit.
It wasn’t a dramatic thing, not like a bonfire or shouted promises. Just…a subtle shift in the temperature of the air around me.
I traced the rim of my glass with a fingertip, watching the last sliver of sun bleed into the ocean. He hadn't called. Again.
The city always exhaled its regrets at dusk – sirens fading to murmur, streetlights blinking on one by one, each a small punctuation mark in an unending sentence of missed opportunities.
I’d been building sandcastles, elaborate things with turrets and moats, attempting to hold back the tide. It never worked, of course. Like everything else.
The waves whispered against the shore, a constant, mournful rhythm.
He liked to bring me seashells. Perfectly ordinary shells, bleached white by the sun, yet he’d find one that mirrored my eye color or held just the right curve.
A foolish gesture, perhaps. But it was enough to make this borrowed warmth – this clinging echo of him – almost bearable. Almost.
I finished my drink and stood, letting the cold spray kiss my skin. He wouldn't understand the quiet comfort of watching the light fade. He always needed something more. I didn’t.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler