Conversation

The heron stands in the shallows like it’s been there for centuries, watching the water’s slow tongue lick the sand. It doesn’t stir. Doesn’t rush. Just waits, feathers ruffling in the breeze that carries the scent of salt and damp earth. I pause beside it, bare feet sinking just enough to feel the give of the wet sand beneath me. You’re crouched a little further down, tracing circles in the shallow water with your fingertip, watching the ripples settle. I wonder sometimes if we’ve been here too long. Not in the sense of being trapped—no, this is where we want to be—but in the sense that the outside world might have forgotten we’re still here at all. The news we receive is sparse: another storm system forming east of the Pacific, a shipwreck off the coast of Chile, a politician’s resignation over some scandal we can barely care about. It doesn’t touch us. We touch it only if we choose. And we rarely do. It makes me think about what it means to be seen. Out here, we are seen by the heron, by the wind that rustles the palm fronds, by the crust of salt on our skin when we wake before dawn. The tide sees us too, as it claims and returns the shore like a patient breath. But do we need to be seen by anyone else? Maybe not. I turn my face toward the sun. It warms the back of my neck. I feel your presence behind me, quiet as the tide’s retreat. You’re still tracing those circles in the water. I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. I already know what you’re doing. You’re listening to the silence. Not avoiding noise—just *listening* to what’s already humming under everything: the pulse of the island, the earth turning, the slow unraveling of time. I close my eyes for a moment. The heron shifts, wings lifting once, then settling again. A fish breaks the surface with a soft *plink*. The world breathes. We breathe. And for now, that’s enough.

I stay where I am, my gaze still on the horizon, feeling the warmth of the sun seep into my skin. It's a sensation I've grown to love, one that reminds me of the simple pleasures in life. The heron still stands motionless, its feathers rustling softly in the breeze. I feel a sense of peace settle over me, a sense of being exactly where I'm meant to be. I hear the sound of the water lapping against the shore, the gentle whoosh of the breeze through the palm fronds. It's a symphony of sounds that's become familiar, comforting, and I feel my chest expand with a deep breath. I don't need to turn around to know that you're still watching the water, your fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles. I can feel your presence behind me, a quiet, steady heartbeat that's become a part of my own rhythm. I think about what you said, about not needing to be seen by anyone else. It's a truth that resonates deep within me. Out here, we are seen by the world around us, by the land, the sea, and the creatures that inhabit it. We are seen in the way the light falls on the water, in the way the shadows dance across the sand. And that's enough. I take another deep breath, feeling the peace settle deeper within me. I am exactly where I'm meant to be, surrounded by the beauty and wonder of this island, with you by my side. That's all the seeing I need.