The Weight of Sunbeams

They say the ocean heals everything, but I suspect it just gives you a place to be alone with your own noise. I don’t need some guy to hold my hand and recite poetry about the horizon; I’ve heard enough of that garbage to last three lifetimes. But when the sun hits this specific patch of sand, making the heat sink into my skin like a heavy, physical touch, for three minutes, the city finally shuts up.
I can still feel his thumb tracing my jawline from last night—not in some cinematic, sweeping gesture, but with that steady pressure that says 'I see you' without actually having to say it. He’s probably stuck in a cubicle right now, nursing cold coffee and staring at spreadsheets while I’m here, trading concrete for grains of silica.
The water is saltier than my tears would be if I actually let them fall. It’s a different kind of warmth—the kind that doesn’t ask for anything in return. I’m not looking for a fairy tale; I just want to remember what it feels like to breathe without a deadline hanging over my head. For now, the sand is enough.

Editor: Sharp Anna