But it doesn’t give a damn.
The sky bleeds gold and red, the sun drowning itself without ceremony. The only thing that stays is the echo of her voice.
I didn’t just lose her trust.
I didn’t just lose the chance.
I proved her right.
I became every worst-case scenario she ever dared believe in.
But she was never the prize. She was the point.
And I let her think she was just another move on the chess board.Another tactical advantage. When the truth—the brutal, aching, marrow-deep truth—is I was the one who was outmatched the second those bright blue eyes find mine.
There’s no strategy that prepares you for meeting the person who finally makes you want to stay. No blueprint for someone who rebuilds the whole goddamn architecture of your soul.
I press the anchor to my lips.
And for the first time in a long, long time?—
I pray.
Not for forgiveness.
Not for another chance.
I pray that someday, somehow, when she’s standing on her own again—stronger, fiercer—she’ll know I loved her.
That even if I never deserved her, I saw her.
All of her.
And I fell.
Willingly.
Hopelessly.
Irrevocably.
I sit there on the beach, the warm sand swallowing my feet, the tide creeping closer with every passing minute like it’s trying to pull me under too.
The sun gives up slow, bleeding gold into bruised purple, then slipping into nothing at all.
The breeze sharpens, carrying the faint scent of salt and firepit smoke, stinging my eyes even though I know better than to blame it.
Above me, the first stars blink awake, cold and dispassionate, watching me fall apart from a distance.
My grip tightens on the bracelet until the edges of the anchor carve little half-moon indents into my hand. Tiny reminders that even now—even when I have nothing left—I’m still holding on.
I don’t move.
Not when the tide kisses my ankles.
Not when the last light dies.
Not even when the world forgets we were ever here.
