The city is quiet at dusk. The kind of hush that settles over coastal towns when the tourists leave and the locals retreat behind screened porches with iced tea and old books. I walk barefoot along the water’s edge, letting the waves kiss my toes, the salt air tugging at my hair. That’s when I see you.

Sitting on a weathered driftwood log, hands tucked between your knees, gaze fixed on the horizon. You don’t look like you belong here—too still, too thoughtful, like you’re waiting for a sign.

I should keep walking. But something makes me stop.

“You come here often?” I ask, immediately cringing at the cliché.

You turn. Your eyes are the color of storm-lit sea glass. And when you smile—slow, hesitant, real—it feels like the first honest thing I’ve seen in months.

“I just got here,” you say. “But I think I’ll stay a while.”

The breeze carries your words to me. And for the first time in a long time, I feel something shift.

Do I sit beside you? Walk away? Say something reckless?