When the City Fades, You Stay

I spent months breathing in exhaust and fluorescent hum. My skin felt like it belonged to someone else—tight from deadlines and gray with the dust of subway tunnels. But today, the air tastes different. It’s thick with salt and the dying warmth of a sun that doesn't care about my missed meetings or unpaid bills.
I let the waves pull at my ankles, an anchor to the present. With my eyes shut, I can almost hear your voice over the roar of the surf—that low, raspy hum you’d make while brewing coffee in our tiny kitchen before the world woke up. You were my sanctuary then, a pocket of heat in a cold city.
Now, standing here in this vast blue, I realize that healing isn't about forgetting the noise. It’s about learning how to hold its silence. The water washes over me like a soft hand, smoothing out the jagged edges of my day. For one moment, under this golden sky, I am not a cog in a machine or a name on an email list. I am just breath and salt, finding my way back to you.

Editor: Alleyway Friend