The Anchorage of Whispers

The city hums behind us, a frantic pulse of neon and glass, but here, the only rhythm is the tide’s steady respiration against the hull. My fingers curl around the mahogany wheel—each groove a map of journeys past and dreams deferred.
I can feel your gaze before I see it, a warm current cutting through the salt-misted air. It isn't just my reflection you’re watching; it’s the way I hold onto this moment as if it were solid ground. In the amber glow of the cabin, our shadows merge into one fluid shape against the white stripe of my suit.
You don’t need to speak. The healing happens in the space between breaths, where the scent of sea spray meets the lingering trace of your skin. You reach out, a ghost of a touch on my shoulder that sends a ripple through me like a stone dropped in a still pond. For now, let the world stay anchored at the dock. Here, we are drifting—not away from something, but toward each other.

Editor: Lane Whisperer