They say the ocean keeps its secrets. I think it keeps heartbreak, too.

The train moves along the edge of the sea, each turn revealing another stretch of water that feels endless. Sunlight scatters on the waves, like fragments of memories I wish I could hold without cutting myself. I lean against the window, letting the hum of the tracks blur the world outside into a slow, aching dream.

I think of you — not in sharp bursts, but in the way the tide moves, quiet yet relentless. Your absence comes in waves, filling the spaces I thought were empty, only to pull away and leave them hollower than before. The water mirrors the heaviness in my chest, each ripple a reminder that distance doesn’t always mean forgetting.

The sea is many things: gentle, cruel, infinite. Today, it is a mirror. It reflects the blue you left in me, the kind that doesn’t fade, only deepens. I watch the horizon, wondering if it’s possible to miss someone so much that even the ocean feels too small to contain it.

Some say the sea can heal. But as the train carries me forward, I know I’m not healing. I’m not even floating. I’m drowning quietly, completely lost in a shade of blue that will always be yours.