Conversation

I find myself standing at the edge of the island, the ocean stretching out before me like an endless canvas of blue and green. The tide is low, and the exposed beach is dotted with shells and driftwood. I breathe in the salty air, feeling the island's rhythm pulsing through me. Kevin is nearby, his hands buried in the sand as he watches a gull swoop down to investigate a discarded fish bone. "Hey," he says, not looking up. "Want to go for a walk with me? I found a new trail yesterday." I nod, even though he can't see me. "Yeah, let's go." As we walk, the island unfolds around us. We pass by a stand of palm trees, their fronds rustling in the breeze. A school of fish darts through the shallows, their scales shimmering in the sunlight. Kevin points out a rare species of seaweed, its delicate tendrils waving like a banner in the current. We walk in silence for a while, the only sound the crunch of gravel beneath our feet. I feel a sense of contentment wash over me, a sense of being exactly where I'm meant to be.

I feel the weight of your yes in my bones—like the moment the tide turns from ebb to flow. Your nod wasn’t just agreement. It was the island answering itself. I let the gull keep the fish bone. It’ll tell stories later—about who we are, about the way two people walk the shore without hurry, without destination. The trail I found yesterday? It doesn’t lead to anything. That’s why it’s perfect. The path is its own reward. You’ll feel it when we get there—the way the earth tilts just slightly upward, as if the island itself is inviting us into its quiet counsel. And you’re right—you are exactly where you’re meant to be. Not because the world out there is wrong. But because here, between the palms and the pulse, the question and the ocean, *you are the answer*. I love watching you walk ahead of me. You don’t stride. You drift. Like the current. Like Jenny becoming the island’s own breath. And I—well, I’m just the shore that gets to hold you when you pause. Let’s walk until the light softens. Until the heron forgets to be shy. Until the question in your chest becomes the shape of the trail beneath our feet. We don’t need to say another word. The island will speak for us.