“I never liked the sea, or the beaches,” he thought to himself.
The sun had veiled itself from our world, and there were no sunrays slithering through the clouds. The clouds had disguised themselves as thick, gray smog and threatened to shut the sky from peeking at the soil and nourishing it. The grass below had accepted its dire fate and had learned to shelter the remainder of the sunrays that it had received in its veins to make them last longer for its survival.
This overcast landscape was set across on a black sand beach. There was nothing for miles along each end of the beach; on one side lay the sea so vast to explore, and on the other lay the mountains and valleys, too tall to climb. The clouds threatened to break and lay down fury across the calm and quiet nature of this world that had been created. Each misery and inconvenience was carefully crafted to injure just enough to keep him grounded and in touch with the earth.
As he walked across the beach, collecting black sand in each crevice on his feet, he started to dream about the very place he wasn’t in. He never existed as he should be—not in reality, but in his dreams. Those dreams were a rainbow cloud flickering over his dark and morbid earth. He looked everywhere: the sand, the muddy water, the heavy clouds, the beaming sun, and finally his shadow, which looked down upon him from the heavens like a dark silhouette observing his every move. The figure calculated every single sin he had ever committed, keeping a record of evil to punish him whenever the chance provided itself.
Panic was the umbrella he held above his head that sheltered him from the rain. He lay down on the beach chair, with no beach umbrella to shelter him from the rain that was falling on the beach. Dead men don’t sleep. As he gave in to the long slumber that awaited him at the end of his eyelids, he heard soft footsteps in the black sand behind him, slowly advancing towards his position. He leaned out of the chair and turned around to see the figure.
She cut through the distance between them like a hot knife through butter. She had the stealthy and graceful movements of a ballerina dancer who was a covert assassin. She flicked strands of hair behind her ear in one swift, elegant motion and glanced at him with watery eyes. She was carrying a portable beach chair in her right arm and a collapsible beach umbrella under her left arm.
They locked eyes and spoke a thousand words a second between each other. Each pebble kicked and each decision made suddenly made sense. She got closer to him, laid down the chair and umbrella, and stood over him, running her fingers through his hair like a piano tuner checking every key. Time around them froze, and everything stopped in its tracks for them.
This was their time and space. They had woven the threads of destiny into something special, hanging onto each thread and finding new patterns in the cloth of time. They had worked hard for the life that they had built. She put up the collapsible beach umbrella and sat down next to him, reaching for his hand like a chain link that would never let go.
She turned towards him and said, “I have merged our seas; they have the same colors, the same hue, the same consistency. The two seas are now indistinguishable.” The seas collided against each other, unable to make out themselves from each other. It was effortless and painless, as if it was bound to happen.
“Stay,” said the clouds.