The Tide’s Quiet Confession

The city hummed behind me, a relentless vibration in my bones that I couldn't shake off even when I closed my eyes. Here, at the edge where the land surrenders to the tide, the only sound is the rhythmic respiration of the deep. It is a heavy, wet breath that pulls at my lungs.
I let my arms rise, palms open to catch the salt-heavy air. It tastes of old memories and new beginnings—bitter like copper, sweet like jasmine. My hair dances—a wild, dark ribbon against the ink-wash sky—as if trying to escape its anchor. For years, I have been a ghost in my own life, moving through glass towers and steel corridors without leaving a trace. But tonight, under this moonless canopy, the sand remembers my weight.
I am not just a body draped in yellow stripes; I am an ache that has finally found its rhythm. The warmth isn't from the sun, which retreated hours ago, but from the realization that I am still here. Still breathing. Still capable of feeling this sharp, beautiful sting of being alive.
I close my eyes and imagine his hand—not touching me yet, but hovering just above my shoulder, a ghost of a promise kept in whispers across town. In this moment, the ocean is my confessor, and the night is my sanctuary.

Editor: Lane Whisperer