The Architecture of a Self-Made Wave

The city is a leech, and my last relationship was just another parasite dressed in silk. I spent too long letting him carve out pieces of me—my time, my dreams, my very posture—until I felt like a hollow shell waiting for someone else to fill it up. Love brain is a sickness that turns your spine into jelly; it makes you think 'we' is more important than 'I.'
But the ocean doesn't care about your social status or your 'potential.' It just takes and gives. As I wade through the turquoise surf, the salt stings like a reality check, washing away the layers of performative devotion I’ve worn for years. Each wave is a stripping-away of his expectations. I am not a project to be managed; I am not a soft place for someone else to land.
When I step back onto the sand, my skin is slick with brine and my eyes are clear of his shadow. If he wants me back, he’ll have to find me in this new landscape—one where I no longer wait for permission to breathe or decide which way the wind blows. Love isn't about shrinking yourself to fit into someone else's palm; it’s about being the storm that forces them to seek shelter. And right now? I am the only one holding the lightning.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks