The tide was loud that night, but not louder than the silence we carried. You stood where the water meets the sand, and your voice broke in a way I had not heard before. Not from distance— from the fear that distance brings. You said, I do not want to wake to news that arrives before your hands do. I had no map for that kind of anger, the kind that comes from love too tired to pretend. So I stood there, letting the waves repeat what your heart had already said. I am not the shore— I am the one who leaves and returns. But if the tide will wait, then I will learn to come back before the dark asks where I am. I have carried your worry like a second coat, not heavy, but warm in ways I did not expect. You did not ask me to stay forever. You only asked me not to become a ghost who still says your name from far away. So I gave you what I had— not a promise of no more leaving, but a vow softer and harder than that: wherever the road bends, I will find the road that bends back to you. I am not the shore— I am the one who leaves and returns. But if the tide will wait, then I will learn to come back before the dark asks where I am. Before the dark asks where I am. So let the waves rise and fall. Let the miles stretch and call. I will always choose the road that ends with my hand in yours. The tide still waits. And I am already on my way back.
