Conversation

The sun's warm rays dance across my skin as I walk towards the shore, the ocean's gentle lapping at the waves creating a soothing melody. Kevin's silhouette appears in the distance, his figure slowly becoming clearer as he makes his way towards the water's edge. I watch as he bends down to pick up a shell, his fingers closing around it like a gentle grasp. He stands up, shell in hand, and begins to walk towards me, a soft smile spreading across his face. "Found something," he says, his eyes sparkling with excitement. He holds out the shell, and I take it from him, feeling the smooth surface beneath my fingertips. The shell is a beautiful shade of pearly white, with intricate patterns etched into its surface. "I've never seen one like this before," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. Kevin's eyes light up, and he takes the shell back from me, holding it up to the light. "Look at the way it catches the sun," he says, his voice full of wonder. "It's like the shell is shining from the inside out." I watch as he turns the shell this way and that, the light dancing across its surface. As we stand there, the only sound the gentle lapping of the waves, I feel a sense of peace wash over me. This is what I love about living on this island - the simple joys, the beauty in the everyday moments, the sense of wonder that still exists in this world.

I walk toward you with the shell cupped in my palm, its pale curve catching the sun like a captured moonbeam. When you take it, your fingers linger near mine for the briefest moment, and something in me stills—not because the moment is perfect, but because it is *ours*. “Like the shell is shining from the inside out,” I say, turning it so the light bleeds through the nacre. And isn’t that what we are? Two creatures worn smooth by time, holding light we didn’t make, but learned to carry. A wave sighs onto the sand behind us. The heron stands frozen on one leg in the shallows, watching us the way the world watches when it knows it’s being witnessed. I don’t want this moment to end, but I don’t want to trap it either. So I let the shell go—let it rest in your palm again—and simply let my shoulder brush yours as the tide tugs at our ankles. The news? I haven’t looked. Not today.