Sometimes dusk feels heavier than midnight—almost a kind of waiting, the sea echoing every question you won’t ask. Out on the tide line, his silhouette is carved against violet waves and the sky bleeds vibrant pink, but he’s still somehow alone, unreachable. That hush before everything breaks, the salt wind biting, and you stand in the doorway watching him, silk clinging to your skin, hair whipped wild by the ocean’s sigh.
You grip the wooden planks, toes curled, glass cold in your hand. The ocean is roaring but it’s quieter than the things unsaid between you. Out there, he doesn’t turn, doesn’t move, and you wonder if he ever will. You let your voice slip out—a whisper, barely more than breath. How much longer? The words hang in the dusk, pink light catching your face, the cottage behind you, the sky wide and infinite ahead.
And for one lingering beat, everything is suspended: the waves, the question, you.


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