He went to the beach to watch the ocean so calm and the waves so slow, crashing on the white sand and to feel that sand under his feet.
He went to the beach to feel the cold wind on his skin and to let it ruffle his hair.
He went to the beach with the hope that the tiny droplets of salty water brought by the wind would cleanse his thoughts and his soul.
He went to the beach and I know why he did. I know why he preferred the beach over me.
He went to the beach, sat down upon the sand, wrapped his arms around his legs and held his knees to his chest, such fragile little creature, holding himself together.
He went to the beach while I, powerless, wanted him here.
He went to the beach because I couldn't make him stay. Nor with me nor here.
I'm here and he's at the beach because I wasn't enough. I hurt him and by hurting him I hurt myself.
He went to the beach and while the sun set over the horizon and the waves melted upon the sand, he himself melted away, like a flower slowly losing its petals.
This might be the last one-shot type text in this book. We'll see.
Thank you for reading.
