Where the Sky Meets the Sea

Water had no business looking like that. Blue did not usually have the ability to take your breath away.

Or perhaps I was being distracted.

The way the sky met the sea, blending into each other.

It stitched so seamlessly it was impossible to tell where one ended and where the other began. Enough to rob my lungs clean of air. And then there was him.

I wanted to groan. To scream. To thow myself directly into the ocean and let the tide claim me.

Because my one-night stand had somehow become my one-year stand, and now he was down on one knee.

A day like this deserved bare shoulders smuddered in sunscreen and the warm sun, sand between your toes, salt on your skin and on your tongue every time you licked your lips. It deserved laughter. It did not deserve a velvet box in hand and the panic of making the wrong decision for the rest of my life.

No.

No, no, no

A swim, perhaps, would be simply divine if it looked this good. I could only imagine what it would feel like to dive in.

"Should we go for a swim?"

I wasn't looking at him when I asked. I was hoping that by now he'd have the good sense to stand up. To get back on his feet, brush off his shorts, and we could pretend this was not happening.

Pretend he was not trying to ruin a perfect day.

I risked a glance over my shoulder and sighed.

Still down on one knee.

"Ciara?"

His voice was careful. Gentl. As if my name was made of glass and too much pitch would cause it to shatter.

I should have seen it coming. This was where we had met, after all.

Well. Not exactly here.

We had met at the supermarket nine minutes from here in the produce aisle, beneath fluorescent lights and a badly placed sign advertising mangoes two for one.

But he had brought me here after.

Said no one could understand this town until they saw the sea.

It had been beautiful then, too.

That first week, everything had felt misplaced. Too slow. Too quiet. The kind of town where people waved at strangers and shops closed early, and everyone somehow knew everyone’s business. I had always belonged to the city. Noise, traffic, convenience. I liked things fast. Anonymous. Alive.

And yet, standing here a year later, I could admit there had been a time I thought I might learn to belong to all this.

I suppose that was the problem.

I guess I was wrong because as my future with him flashed before my eyes, the only thing I was seeing was this view.

The sea. The horizon. The white crash of waves against stone.

Not him.

And that, more than anything, felt cruel. It had been fun while it lasted.

I remember the first time we met as clearly as if it all happened yesterday.

I stood in the fruit aisle, slightly squeezing avocados with the grave concentration of a woman trying not to be emotionally manipulated by produce, trying to find one that wasn't perfect on the outside and disappointing on the inside.

I reached for another, pressing my thumb into the skin with quiet suspicion as though I was not, in fact, trying to avoid being tricked into paying too much for fruit that would still be unripe three days after purchase.

Someone had cleared their throat behind me.

Without turning, I quietly placed the avocado back and reached for another one, this time only inspecting it with grave innocence, as though I had merely been admiring its shape.

“Um,” a voice said. “Those look nice.”

I turned.

Not security.

Not a disapproving employee in a yellow apron.

Just a man standing a little too close to the citrus display.

The man.

The very man I hadn't expected to fall head over heels, to the point where in just one year, he'd be kneeling in the sand with a ring in his hand and far too much hope in his eyes.

He had been unfairly handsome in the way coastal town men had the luxury of being. Sun-warmed skin. Dark curls tugged loose by the wind. A face so offensively symmetrical it bordered on arrogance, though his expression had ruined the effect entirely. Clean-lined and quietly self-assured, if not for the fact that he had seemed to be regretting his opening sentence.

“They do,” I had said, glancing at the avocados in my hand. “It’s spring. Everything looks better.”

His mouth had lifted slightly, the same way it does when I beat him in a game.

“That’s true.”

He looked at the fruit. Then at me. Then at the fruit again, as though deciding whether to continue or abandon the interaction with what little dignity remained.

“Are you new? I’ve never seen you around before.” There was a slight pause, before the last part. A hesitation just subtle enough to be polite and just obvious enough to mean something else entirely. I've always either been slow or he had never been able to fully express his intentions, because a proposal right now felt wild.

“I’m Dane.” he said.

“Ciara.”

“I like your smile,” The first compliment, then almost immediately, “You have a lovely smile, I mean.”

The correction made something warm and amused unfurl low in my chest. Back then, it had been charming, but the second-guessing became old really quickly. Dane second-guessed everything.

It was endearing until it became exhausting.

Thank you.”I said, because he was handsome and awkward and trying, which was somehow worse than confidence.

A quiet pause settled between us.

Not uncomfortable.

Just new.

I took half a step back, already preparing to end it before it became anything I’d have to think too hard about.

“It was nice meeting you.”

That should have been the end of it.

It could have been.

One step.

Two.

“Could we exchange numbers?”

The question came so quickly, I smiled before I could stop myself.

“Does that normally work?”

His expression shifted into something between embarrassment and reluctant amusement.

“Honestly? Haven’t done this in a while, so I couldn’t say.”

I should have just walked away.

I doubt he would have walked after me. Should have said no, like I always did to every other guy who tried to get my attention, and instead I looked at him again.

Really looked.

He didn’t seem like the sort who needed practice. Not with that face. Not with that voice. Back home, men like him barely had to ask for attention. Usually, they didn’t have to ask at all. Still, there was something disarming in the effort. Something unpolished beneath the ease. I tilted my head.

“You seem nice,” I said. “So I’ll give you a tip.”

His brows lifted.

“Asking for my number like that makes it sound like we’re about to become digital friends.”

He smiled properly that time.

And there it was.

Not charm.

Not Polish.

Something softer.

“Okay,” he said. “Then let me try again.”

The sea wind catches now, dragging me back to the present.

Back to him.

Back to the ring.

"Ciara Henderson," Dane says, voice unsteady in the salt air. "Will you marry me?"

His eyes are hopeful. Tender. Terrifying in their certainty.

And maybe that is the problem.

Not that he loves me.

Not that he is kind.

Not that he is offering me something good and steady and sure.

No.

It is that somewhere between the supermarket and the shoreline, between spring and now, I realised certainty has always belonged to him.

Not me.

He looks at me and sees a future.

I look at him and see a view.

The waves crash hard against the rocks below.

The wind shifts.

The box in his hand catches sunlight. And before I can stop myself—before kindness can ruin honesty, before fear can soften into cowardice—I hear my own voice cut clean through the hush between us.

“Yes.”

The word leaves me like a betrayal.

His face breaks open with joy.

And somewhere beneath the roar of the sea, something in me quietly drowns.

Whoosh.