It's late. At the beach I hold your hand. We walk along the water for nearly an hour. Listening to the rain. You tell me you haven't seen the ocean since you were a child, while I look out onto the sea. The rain picks up. And you say we should go back to the car, changing direction before I can respond. Once back, we sit in the backseat. Watching the rain come down.
"I haven't been to the beach in years," I say. And then after a pause: "I'm really going to miss you."
Don't worry, your smile says. Everything will be fine.
Suddenly, the rain stops, and I made my way to the front seat. Starting the car. You stay in the back, as I drive you home. You kiss me goodbye. Twice. And then you close your eyes. When you're finally gone, I drive back to the sea. Looking out onto the water again. Nothing but silence. And somewhere I hear your voice telling me to come back. But it's late, after all.
