The wind carried salt and silence.
We stood at the edge of the ship, leaning on the cool railing, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead of us. Grace rested her chin on her folded arms, her jacket zipped halfway, strands of hair tangled by the breeze.
"I've never seen this much water in my life," she murmured.
I smiled. "Kind of terrifying, right?"
She turned her head slightly toward me, eyes squinting in the fading light. "A little. But also kind of beautiful. Kind of freeing."
The sun was low, dipping beneath the edge of the world. It painted the sky in streaks of gold and apricot, a slow-motion goodbye.
She didn't speak again for a while, and I didn't fill the space. Sometimes, her silence said more than her words.
"I used to dream about stuff like this," she finally said. "Not fancy things. Just… being far away. Somewhere the world couldn't touch me for a while."
I looked at her. "And does this feel like that?"
She shrugged. "Maybe. A little. I still feel the world tugging sometimes. Like I can't let go of it, even out here."
I nodded, understanding in ways I couldn't explain.
Then she added, "But standing here with you? It makes it easier."
I felt the sting of that kind of truth—the soft kind that slides under your ribs and sits there, quiet and heavy.
She looked up at me. "Do you think we'll remember this?"
"I hope so," I said. "Even if we forget everything else."
We stayed like that, watching the ocean carry on like it always did. No rush. No destination. Just movement.
Somewhere behind us, a small band began playing near the deck's center—a slow, jazzy tune that felt like it belonged to old memories.
Grace turned toward the sound, then glanced back at me.
"Dance with me?" she asked, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
I didn't answer. I just held out my hand.
We moved to the quiet part of the deck, shoes thudding softly against the wooden boards. There were no other couples, just us, swaying in time with a song neither of us could name.
Her head rested against my chest. My chin touched her hair.
We didn't speak. We didn't need to.
Time felt like it loosened its grip.
For once, nothing needed fixing. Nothing needed running from.
Just her. Just me. Just a night on the water, stitched together by music, the dark, and the kind of closeness that doesn't ask for anything but to be held a little longer.