It’s warm today. Fifteen degrees and barely a breeze. The kind of day made for laughter, for sunglasses and soft ice cream, for lying back and letting go. I sit beneath the oak by the castle, by the beach— and my eyes betray me again. Not from the wind. Not from the sun. But from this ache that doesn’t know it’s spring. I’ve walked alone before. I’ve chosen solitude, benches, quiet. But you were always somewhere. Home. Busy. Mine. Now I walk and you’re everywhere. In the blossom, in the breeze, in the spaces between the couples. I try to tell myself— it’s a phase, you will heal. But where can I go where you haven’t already been? What season can I stand in that doesn’t still carry your name? The oak tree shades my face. I wipe my tears like a reflex. I feel the warmth. I feel nothing. The joy is gone. And still— I sit. I stay. I breathe.
