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you need some rest...

She pressed a hand to her chest, as if checking to see if her own heart was still keeping time with the tide. The moon was a harsh, bright eye pinned to the sky, shedding just enough light to show me how far away she had already gone, even while standing right in front of me. I remember the cool dampness of the air and the way she refused to look into the lens, offering me only her profile, guarded and smooth like polished stone. It was the posture of someone who had already packed up their half of the story, lingering on the shore just long enough to let the cold sink into my bones. To miss her is to be stuck on this dark beach, watching the silver water roll in, waiting for her to turn and tell me what she was thinking in this frozen second. But the frame never changes, and her hand never drops, and I am left with the endless, quiet ache of knowing she took the answer with her when she finally walked away.