Between the waves and you

I wake to gulls and the smell of saltwater. For a second I forget where I am. The ceiling is the same pale blue as the morning sky, and light drips through the curtains like water. Then the truth hits me-Bellharbor. The cottage. The sea.

And him.

I roll over and pull the thin sheet close. My heart feels heavy, like it spent the night swimming laps through old memories. The dream clings to me-Noah's laugh, the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching, the sound of waves behind us as we ran barefoot along the shore.

Four years apart, and last night one glimpse could undo everything I worked to put back together.

I get up, braid my hair loosely, and step outside.

The morning air is cool, smelling of salt and coffee. My sandals crush the sand as I head to the little cafe by the boardwalk-the same one Noah and I used to haunt, pretending we liked black coffee to feel older.

The cafe hasn't changed. A faded surfboard sign, white lights crooked over the porch. Inside, the wooden floor sighs in all the familiar spots.

"Morning," the barista says, smiling. She's new-probably doesn't remember me.

"Morning," | answer, scanning the chalkboard.l 

order an iced latte and take a seat by the window facing the sea.

The view hurts a bit. Sunlight dances on the water, gulls scream, the horizon glows. It's too pretty, too familiar. It makes me remember every reason I left and every reason I came back.

I take a sip and try to breathe through the ache.

Then I hear it-his voice. Low, steady, unmistakable.

"Em?"

I turn. There he is. Noah Williams. Four years apart and he still feels like a note I know by heart. He holds a takeout cup in one hand, car keys in the other. His hair is shorter, his skin a bit sun-kissed. He wears a plain white tee and faded jeans, and somehow could have stepped straight out of my memory.

"Noah." My voice cracks a little.

He smiles, careful. "I didn't think it was really you. Thought my eyes were playing tricks."

"It's me," I say, trying to steady myself. "Back again."

He nods. "You still like cold coffee?"

I laugh. "Always."

There's a pause-the kind of moment where you're stuck on a bridge between past and present, unsure which side will hold.

He glances at the ocean. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I didn't expect to be here," I admit. "But the sea doesn't forget."

"No," he says softly. "It never does."

The silence that follows is heavy but not uncomfortable, full of things we both want to say but can't yet.

We drift outside together, almost by accident.

The sun climbs higher and the beach glows gold.

"So," he says, kicking at the sand. "Back for long?"

"I don't know. Maybe the summer."

He nods. "Good to see you, Em. You look... older."

I arch an eyebrow. "That's one way to put it."

He laughs, and for a moment we're seventeen again, the same laugh that brightened everything.

Then I catch the shadow in his eyes. He looks away toward the waves.

"I never got to say goodbye"" he murmurs.

I swallow hard. "You didn't try very hard."

He flinches, and I regret it. But it's true. He stopped calling, stopped writing. When I left for college it felt like our summers vanished.

"I was dealing with a lot back then," he says softly.

"I know."

"I didn't know how to talk about it."

"I didn't know how to wait."

We stand there, two people who once knew each other by heart and now don't know where to start.

Then he smiles, small but real. "Maybe we can start over. Coffee first, not apologies."

"Maybe," I reply, though my chest hurts.

We part at the end of the pier. He heads to a gathering by the water, I linger by the boardwalk.

I should feel lighter, but I don't. It's as if the tide came in to remind me how much it can take away.

"Hey, ghost girl!" someone shouts. Eli stands nearby, surfboard tucked under his arm, grinning like the sun belongs to him.

I laugh. "You again."

"Bellharbor's small, right?"

He steps closer, sand on his feet, seawater on his skin. He has an easy pull, something that makes the world feel lighter.

"You okay? You look like you've been through a time machine."

"Something like that."

"Old memories?"

"Something like that too."

He studies me and then nods toward the water.

"Come on. You can't be near the sea and not touch it."

"I didn't bring a swimsuit."

"Doesn't matter. Roll up your jeans. Live a little."

I hesitate, then laugh. "You sound like every bad idea I ever said yes to."

He grins wider. "Then I'm doing something right."

We walk the shore until the water licks our feet.

It's cold, alive. The sun warms my shoulders, and finally something loosens inside me.

"Were you raised here?" he asks.

"Yeah. Every summer until eighteen."

"So why'd you leave?"

"Because what I love here hurts too much to stay."

Sometimes the best places hurt the most, he says with a quiet nod.

The wind lifts his hair and I catch the scent of salt and sunscreen. There's a calm between us, new and easy.

Then I notice Noah again, watching from a distance. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat before he looks away. He's a shadow I can't shake.

Eli notices the tension but stays quiet. He drops his board and says, "Guess that's my cue to ride the waves. You coming back tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

"Good. You probably need another bad idea or two."

He runs into the surf, board gliding through the water. I watch him go, my thoughts drifting back to Noah and everything left unfinished.

That night I sit on the porch, a blanket around my shoulders, the sea whispering near the dunes. Two names circle my mind: Noah. Eli.

One feels like memory, the other like possibility.

The waves crash and retreat, tugging at the same questions. And I realize I might be deciding the same thing.