broken shells and broken dreams {hannah}

Ocean breezes and the crisp taste of sea salt mix together in the air, the sky a dark grey matter. Days near the ocean are almost always like this: the dismal atmosphere is somewhat comforting, though. It provides a sense of comfort; at least you're certain of one thing in your life, as the lack of sunlight is pretty much guaranteed. It's the start of autumn, and the water no longer feels acceptable to swim in; it's now harsh and brisk, and only the most daring of people are willing to face the intense waves that come with the integration of colder weather. I am not one of them. In fact, I can't remember the last time that I had any more than my feet inside of the water that stretches out before me. Distant memories of swimming in the water with her are visible, but not tangible. I am no longer able to recall much more than the general concepts of my time with her. Everything is slipping away. Clear, distinct memories give way to cold, unwanted nothingness.

But even in that nothingness, there is something. The faintest remnants of her laughter, or the sensation of her fingers through the spaces between mine. I can still feel those around me sometimes. The smallest things are here to stay, to haunt my thoughts and my sleep for the rest of my days. But the big things—the things I want to be able to hold onto forever—are going, going, going...

I see the girl jump from the edge. Her arms flail wildly at her sides, like she was a bird that was just pushed from her nest for the first time. Her hair is a lion's mane, strands askew and flying in every which direction. Her clothes flutter like a parachute, billowing and full of air, almost as if they could keep her in the air by sheer force alone. She looks free, freer than any of us on the ground below her. Even though she is descending, even though her journey will have an end as she plummets into the icy sea, her flight through the space between our suffering and the place where we go when we die (Do we really go there? Or is this heaven just a figment of our imagination?) is more significant and more full of purpose than any of the lives we live. Because she is free, liberated from the chains that are our tedious, monotonous lives.

I feel myself being dragged towards the edge of the water to get a better look at the girl, until the lapping of the waves touches the tips of my shoes and I can feel the chill biting into my socks. In the slight second that I redirected my attention, I have lost the girl amongst the waves. She has molded into a swirling, grey wave, intermixed with the rest. And then suddenly her eyes are on mine, a mere twenty feet from mine. The waves have carried her over, to me of all places. I am looking at her, and she is so beautiful. And for me to say that is utterly impossible, because I have never looked at someone quite like that. Except her, the one that captivated my thoughts and my days. And to say it in past tense is more painful to admit than to acknowledge that I have said it of another.

My shoes and shirt are off before I know the motives behind it. Something has told me to strip down, to take my chances and go into the water. That something has propelled my legs into the briskness, and with each step I take into the salty abyss I feel pin pricks on every submerged inch of my body. It feels unpleasant, but at the same time like nothing like I've quite experienced before. It would be wrong to call it pain, because the discomfort fades to an acceptable numbness.

If the numbness could stretch to the rest of my body, I might be content for once.

It's almost as if the waves are urging me on, like they want to help me make my way over to the girl. I lose sight of her a few times, but each moment afterwards I am rewarded with the sight of her glowing eyes once more, her long hair plastered to the sides of her face and streaming down her back. The grey sky and waves behind her contrast the darkness of her hair, framing her like a portrait. I am all the way in the water at this point; the cold is numbing, but I can feel the salt provoking my open cuts and sores. I let it pass though, because clean salt water is better than allowing it to become infected. The waves are an even match for my lack of ocean swimming, and it's a small struggle to keep my head above water. In the ocean District, a person would think that a person living there would be nothing short of spectacular in the water; but when you make your life's purpose to avoid it, it's a struggle to keep the waves from washing over you.

The water is dragging her away, towards my left. Whenever I arrive at the place where she was, she is long gone away. I feel like a cat chasing its prey, knowing that there's a slim chance of capturing the prey in its speed and small size. I do not know if she is deliberately fleeing from me, either; if she wanted to greet me, she would fight the waves, but she is merely letting them overpower her. But I do know that she could swim to me if she wanted; I saw her break the water with her magnificent dive from the cliff, and I saw her break the surface with intensity and confidence. She is at home here, just as much as I feel foreign.

A break in the wind slows the waves down a moment, and I make this my opportunity to surge towards her direction. Why I am even still trying, I don't know. She is nothing like her; The way she moves through the water is not the way she would have. She would have dangled her faith at the edge of the water, where it comes up to kiss the sand. She would not have went in. She would have stood there, the wind in her hair and the whisper on her lips, her voice like a melody but not quite a song. I feel as if her whole life, she attempted nothing more than to find the one thing that made her voice a song, the one place or person that made her life whole. I was not that person, as much as she thought I was. I was nothing more than a thing to fill her void, just like she was one to fill mine. The bridge that spanned the gap, connecting the wound but never healing it. Just a bandage.

I am reaching her, now. If I push just a little harder through the choppy current, I can stretch my hand out and touch her. But do I want to? I don't wish to latch onto another person, much less a girl. I loved her, and even though she was not the one that made my life whole, I loved her. The promise was not spoken of, but it was there: Her heart is was mine, and mine was hers. There is nothing more that either of us knew when it came to us and our relationship except that.

I surge forward suddenly, a random kick into the ocean propelling me forward. I'm in front of her, her black hair like a lion's mane, yet at the same time a beautiful mosaic of curls and shimmering water drops.

"Hi," I breathed. My heart beat excitedly, yet for a reason that I was both unsure of and disturbed by. I should not be excited to meet this girl, I should not be happy to speak to her. I should not be energized by the mere sight of her soft face.

I should not, but I am.