Dear X,

I stand tall as the waves brush through the shore, dragging everything away with a relentless pull.

My thoughts shattered as the harsh water collided with the rocks, melting into a singularity.

But do you remember?

Instead of turning the pages, you chose to tear them apart, piece by piece—heaven-made torture, one might say. I still can’t quite decipher what you were trying to do or the emotions buried between the heart and the mind. As your voice faded lower and lower, I found myself lost in thought, wondering what would happen after the hurricane. One thing I know for sure—Sirius wouldn’t survive a storm this cold, a torment this cruel.

I was on my knees, pleading my case, unable to meet your eyes. But you left me without grace, without comfort or compassion. In a desperate attempt to stop the pain, my sword aimed for the bind, freeing whatever was trapped there. I was no longer suffocating—I was finally free.

It’s such a shame that the gleam is rusting, forcing us to leave this place. Then I shall lay the ruins here, let the waves take them and disperse them, maybe even make them glow one more time beneath the amber sun. Then the ocean will be our reminder—that what was once beautiful is now beyond reach, as we set our sail into a better place.

Your dearest,
VIII

Written by John Smith