THE EDGE

She sat in the wedding dress, waiting for the tide to take them both

She sat at the edge of the sea, aware that anyone watching would call it dramatic.

But what else was there?

She had gone through all the other possibilities. Each required too much planning, too much evidence, too much of herself left behind for someone else to clean. She never liked the idea of burdening anyone. Not even now.

So she sat there, in her mother’s wedding dress.
The waves rose and fell against the cliffside.
The tide inched toward her feet.
If she stayed still long enough, the sea would make the next move.

She tried to believe she had choices. But she knew better.
She had broken one of the oldest rules.
Coveted what was not hers to want,
what had never been hers to touch.
She told herself she resisted.
And she did, at first.

But desire is patient.

It waits in the quiet places, in the soft parts she’d been taught to ignore.
And he, calm, steady, had known exactly where those places lived.
She thought of the stolen moments.
A brush of skin.
A breath too close.
The way his hand had settled at the base of her spine, like he’d been there before.

The tide touched her ankles.
She tried to convince herself she could live without him.
Then she tried to convince herself she could live with the secret.

Both were lies.

She looked down at the white fabric floating around her, heavy with salt and memory.
The dress had been beautiful.
She had been beautiful.
Pregnancy softened everything, her face, her body, her resolve.

The water lifted the hem, nudged it upward.
She closed her eyes.
Listened to the sea breathe against her.
Tried to decide if this counted as a step or a surrender.

She thought of her sisters, summers in the shallow waves.
She thought of the life inside her, small and listening.

She did not move forward.
She did not move back.
She simply stayed there,

at the edge,

until the tide made its choice.