Between the waves and you

The road to Bellharbor still carries the smell of salt and rain. Before I even spot the sea, I can feel it- the wind thickening, the light softening, a golden edge spilling over the horizon like a memory I can't quite reach.

It's been four years since I left this town. Four years since the summer that changed everything.

Now I'm driving back alone, windows down, a half-sad song drifting from the radio. My suitcase rattles in the back, full of clothes I probably won't wear and a heart that still won't stay quiet.

The Welcome to Bellharbor sign rushes by, chipped and rusted at the corner. Someone has scrawled "still beautiful" in blue marker underneath. I almost laugh. The town hasn't changed-and neither has the ache that comes with it.

Bellharbor isn't just a place. It's a memory that never leaves me alone.

The cottage is exactly as I remember: white wood siding, peeling blue shutters, a porch that sags when you step on it. Seaweed and wildflowers wrap around it like a hug. My parents sold the place years ago, but the current

owners rent it out during the summer.

Coming back here feels right-the same house, the same town, the same sea. Maybe I hoped the ghosts would still recognize me.

When I unlock the door, dust dances in the afternoon light. The air is still and heavy with silence. I drop my keys on the counter and stand there, just breathing.

The waves crash softly in the distance. The same rhythm as before. The same sound that filled every moment I struggled to find words for.

I walk to the beach barefoot. The sand is warm and soft, dotted with seashells and driftwood.

Every step feels like stepping back in time.

Memories come in flashes: Noah's laugh as he chased me into the water. How his hair curled when it got wet. The night we carved our initials into the pier post, promising never to forget each other.

We were seventeen and endless. Or so we thought.

That was before everything fell apart-before he pulled away, before I left without saying goodbye.

I bend to pick up a shell, smooth and white.

don't know why, but I slip it into my pocket.

Maybe it's something to hold onto when the memories get loud.

The sun begins to set as I head toward the boardwalk. Families gather around the ice cream stand, kids run with sparklers, gulls cry above the pier. Everything looks the same, yet nothing feels the same.

I buy a cone from the same old man who used to give Noah and me extra sprinkles. He squints at me. "Been a while since l've seen you around," he says. I smile softly. "Yeah. A while." "Still love the sea?" "Always."

The vanilla tastes cold and sweet, and for a moment I'm seventeen again, sitting on the dock with Noah's shoulder next to mine, watching the sky turn pink.

"Promise me you'll always come back here," he'd said. l'd whispered, "I promise." And I broke that promise.

When I reach the pier, the air gets cooler. The waves crash harder, alive and restless. I go to the edge where the wooden rail gives a little under my fingers. The ocean stretches on forever, the same sea that knows everything I've tried to forget.

That's when I see him.

Noah.

He's about twenty feet away, talking to someone. Taller now, broader, his hair a touch shorter and sunlit. He's wearing a gray shirt that clings to his shoulders, and when he turns a bit, the setting sun hits his face.

My breath catches.

He looks older, but it's him- the boy who showed me what love could feel like and what losing it could feel like.