A week later, I booked a trip to a coastal town far from where Anthony and I had lived. I told myself the distance would make it easier.
The first morning there, I walked down to the beach. The crashing waves, the cries of seagulls, the faint smell of salt—they hit me like a punch to the chest. I sat in a lounge chair, fists clenched, fighting to steady my breath. Around me, life went on: children laughing as they chased each other, couples strolling hand-in-hand, an old man flying a kite.
I stayed, even though part of me wanted to run.
The second day, I forced myself to walk barefoot along the shoreline. The cold water nipped at my toes, retreating and returning in a steady rhythm. I thought about what my psychologist had said—how the sea wasn’t my enemy. It was just part of my story.
On the third morning, the sky was painted with streaks of pink and gold as I wandered farther down the beach. That’s when I saw it—a small sailing club with colorful sails flapping in the breeze. Voices and laughter drifted across the water.
For a moment, I almost turned away. Watching those boats felt too close to the life I’d lost. But something made me stay. I sat down on a bench and watched them dance over the waves.
