The Sea Remebers
(Isla)
The sea was the first thing that ever taught me how to leave.
It takes what it wants, pulls it out, and never apologizes. I used to hate that. Now, standing on the damp edge of Merrin Bay with the wind knotting my hair, I think maybe that’s the only honest thing in the world.
The air tastes like salt and rain. Behind me, gulls cry like ghosts — sharp, lonely things. The small cottage I rented creaks behind a dune, paint peeling, roof too low, windows too small. It feels temporary, but then again, so do I.
I left everything behind three days ago. A shared apartment, a man who said he loved me but loved control more, a life that had started to shrink around the edges.
I haven’t spoken to anyone since I came back. That’s how I want it.
Until I see him.
There’s a man down the beach, bent over near the lighthouse rocks. He’s alone, jacket flapping open, camera strap hanging from his neck. I can’t see his face, just his shape against the grey horizon — tall, slightly hunched, like he’s trying not to take up space.
He doesn’t notice me. Good. I’m not ready to be noticed.
I walk until the sand gives way to pebbles, until my breath fogs in the wind, until I can almost convince myself that I’m starting over.
But the sea remembers. It always does.
(Cal)
The lens fogs up again.
I wipe it with my sleeve, but the moisture clings like everything else in this town — heavy, slow to let go. I’m still not sure why I came here. Maybe because it’s quiet. Maybe because no one knows me yet.
The lighthouse behind me is boarded up, old paint blistering off like sunburn. The cottage beside it — mine now, technically — smells like dust and pine and someone else’s history.
I came here to take photos of the coast. I told myself that. But really, I came to breathe without being followed. Without seeing her name light up my phone again.
A gull dives, shrieking. I look up and see her — a woman walking near the edge of the water, hair whipped sideways, wearing an oversized sweater and boots that sink too deep in the sand. She looks… not lost, but emptied.
For a second, our eyes almost meet. I look away first.
Later, when I’m editing photos at the kitchen table, I find her there — caught accidentally in the corner of a frame, blurred but unmistakable. I don’t know her name, but there’s something about the way she looks out at the sea.
Like she’s asking it the same question I am.
