The Pink I Wore to Forget the City

Look, I'll be straight with you. Three months of 2 AM office lights and a boss who called my burnout 'ambition' left me feeling like pavement—gray, cracked, nothing soft left in me. So when Kai texted that he'd booked us a beach house for the weekend, no filters, no agenda, I almost said no. Almost. But here I am, standing in this pink sequined bikini that cost more than my rent, one arm up in the air like I'm trying to hold the whole sky so it doesn't fall on me.
The thing about the sea is it don't care about your KPIs or your ex's ghosting. It just rolls in and out, patient as a friend who never once raised his voice at you. Kai stood behind me, not touching, just breathing with the wind, and I felt this ridiculous swell of warmth go through my chest like someone lit a candle in an alleyway that's been dark for years.
I don't need him to fix me. I just need him to stand here while I remember I'm allowed to be soft again, allowed to want something, allowed to let the salt water taste sweet on my lips instead of bitter. That pink? It's not for showing off. It's a flag. A small, glittering declaration that the city girl who used to flinch at loud noises is finally, slowly, learning to breathe.

Editor: Alleyway Friend