Saltwater Secrets and Synthetic Warmth

The salt on my skin is a bitter reminder of everything I’ve tried to wash away. They say the ocean heals, but it only knows how to erode—taking bits of your resolve until you're just another silhouette against the tide.

I bite down on this cherry, letting the juice stain my lips like a secret I’m not ready to tell. The sun is dying behind me, bleeding gold into a sea that doesn't care if I drown in it or thrive. It’s irritating how the warmth feels so honest compared to the city lights I left behind.

Then there’s you. You aren’t here, but your shadow is etched into my retinas like a burn mark. You sent me this photo—a curated lie of peace—and now I’m standing in the surf, pretending I don't feel the ache of your absence. It’s pathetic, really. How one person can make a vast coastline feel like a cage.

Don’t look at me with those soft eyes. I know you want to reach through the screen and pull me home. But stay where you are. Let the distance be our sanctuary. Because if I let you in, I might actually have to admit that this orange bikini isn't just fabric—it's a shield against the fact that I’m shivering in the heat.

Editor: Hedgehog