She breathes in a room humming with life,
a fragile song, not loud but steady,
a bridge between two worlds I can’t yet cross.
The air smells like morning,
crisp, new,
the kind of scent that cradles hope in its arms.
I drive to the beach,
rain dancing on the windshield,
weaving patterns that feel like promises.
The sand is cool beneath my feet,
the kind of cool that wakes you up
and whispers, you’re alive.
I pick up a stone—
smooth, enduring, timeless—
and toss it into the ocean.
The splash feels like a spark,
a seed of something unseen
but waiting to bloom.
Back home, her letters spill across the table,
ink alive on paper,
strokes of dreams I hadn’t known.
Friends I wish I’d met,
questions that feel less like fear now
and more like paths still open.
It feels like lighting a candle,
not the flame,
but the glow that follows,
where everything softens,
and even shadows turn kind.
In her story, there is a kiss,
but it’s not a prince—it’s the sky,
a quiet reunion between breath and stars,
a tide that always finds its shore.
The wind carries her voice,
not lost, but endless,
folding into the waves’ rhythm.
I sit in the car,
watching raindrops glide like silver threads.
Each one falls,
joins,
becomes part of something greater.
And I know I’ll keep walking with her,
not waiting,
but living—
in this space between waves.