Strength, we thought,
was not leaving.
It was holding the line
while it cut us.
It was loyalty without limits.
It was silence
that looked like grace.
Now we know
strength sometimes sounds like no,
sometimes looks like distance,
sometimes feels like grief
for who we used to be.
Nothing teaches you faster
than the sentence
I wouldn’t do that again.
It doesn’t mean you’re wiser now—
just more aware
of the cost.
Awareness isn’t loud.
It doesn’t brag.
It just changes how you choose
when no one is watching.
The ocean keeps breathing
like nothing has ever been broken.
Waves arrive, waves leave,
each one pretending it isn’t carrying
someone else’s grief back out to sea.
I watch them anyway,
hoping they’ll take something from me
without asking what it costs.
Palm trees sway overhead,
carefree and rooted,
as if they’ve never questioned
where they belong.
They don’t ache for other lives.
They don’t replay moments
they should’ve handled differently.
They just exist—
and I envy them for that.
The air is warm,
salt clinging to my skin,
sunlight making everything look
forgiven.
From a distance,
this place looks like healing.
Like peace.
Like the kind of postcard
people think fixes you.
But regrets travel well.
They pack light.
They follow you barefoot through sand,
show up uninvited
between sips of something cold,
whispering names
the ocean can’t drown out.
I think about the words
I didn’t say soon enough,
the moments I let slip
because I was afraid
of what choosing would cost me.
I think about how easy it is
to mistake beauty for closure,
movement for growth.
The ocean keeps rolling in,
unbothered by my spirals.
The palm trees keep dancing,
unaware of the weight
I’m carrying under calm skin.
And I stand here—
sun-soaked, smiling for strangers,
learning that sometimes regret
doesn’t mean you chose wrong.
Sometimes it just means
you cared deeply,
and the tide hadn’t turned yet.
Through the Fog 