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You keep picturing water first. Not a crowd. Not a schedule that tightens around your ribs. Just you two, barefoot for a moment, the salt on your skin, and the soft hush a cove makes when the town is

You don’t want an audience. You want air. A cliff edge that makes you feel small in the best way. Wind that steals the rehearsed lines and leaves only the true ones. And a quiet, cinematic record of i

You can feel it in your chest when someone says, “So how many people are you inviting?” Because what you want is smaller than that. You want the world to go quiet. You want soft light on your skin. Yo

You keep picturing it. Not a room full of expectations. Just you two, above the coastline, where the air smells like warm pine and salt, and the sea turns a deeper shade of blue every time you breathe