It has become an obsession.
The possibilities.
The impossibilities.
Would I dare?
Or would I remain sensible?
I see his smile.
“You’re thinking too much,” he says.
“I always do,” I reply.
He nods.
“I know.”
Then the silence returns.
Not awkward.
Just… full.
I look towards the sea.
“I’ve never been in.”
He laughs.
“What do you mean?”
“I come. I look. I leave.”
“You’ve never put your feet in?”
I shake my head.
“Why?”
I look down at the shoes hanging from my fingers.
“I don’t like getting messy.”
He looks at the shoes.
Then the dress.
Then the sea.
Then back at me.
“So that’s what we’re afraid of.”
I laugh.
“I’m not afraid.”
“No?”
“No.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Prove it.”
Shoes off.
Trousers rolled.
Water around his ankles.
He turns.
“Come on.”
I shake my head.
“It’s freezing.”
“I know.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“You’ll regret it.”
“I probably will.”
He grins.
“But I’ll regret not doing it more.”
And I stand there.
Watching.
Thinking.
Calculating.
Exactly as I always do.
Then I laugh at myself.
Drop the shoes.
Lift the dress just enough.
And run.
Straight into the freezing water.
Screaming.
Laughing.
Alive.
Except…
This is all a dream.
The beach has been living rent-free in my head for weeks now.
I’ve been to the beach several times this year, yet somehow, every single time, I’ve never really been to the beach.
I’ve always been careful.
Too careful.
I arrive.
I admire the view.
I take a few photos.
I enjoy the scenery.
Then I leave.
No sand in my shoes.
No water on my feet.
No sitting on the ground.
No getting messy.
No letting go.
For some reason, when it comes to the beach, I become the most sensible version of myself.
And lately, my mind has been refusing to let that slide.
I don’t know if it’s because of all the stories I’ve read.
Or all the unfinished stories I’ve written.
Maybe it’s the photographs I’ve seen.
Maybe it’s all the farewell scenes in films where people stand by the sea and somehow leave with clarity.
Whatever it is, something keeps calling me back.
Not to visit the beach.
To experience it.
I keep imagining it.
Would I go at sunrise or sunset?
Would I walk barefoot along the shoreline?
Would I sit directly on the sand and not care if it got into my dress?
Would I take a mat?
Would I take a chair?
Would I finally put my feet in the water?
Or would I stand there screaming because it’s freezing?
Would I go alone?
Or would I go with someone?
Would another person disrupt the quiet?
Would they interrupt the reading and reflection?
Or would they encourage me to stop overthinking and just run straight into the water?
I honestly don’t know.
What I do know is that this obsession started years ago.
I saw a photograph of someone at the beach in winter. Maybe it was autumn.
They were skinny dipping.
My first thought was, *How crazy are they?*
My second thought was, *I wonder what that feels like.*
And ever since then, I’ve wondered what it would feel like to be completely free at the beach.
Not sensible.
Not careful.
Not observing.
Just present.
Because every time I’ve gone, I’ve held something back.
I’ve protected the dress.
Protected the shoes.
Protected the hairstyle.
Protected the image.
And in doing so, I think I protected myself right out of the experience.
Maybe that’s why I struggle to write about the beach.
I haven’t fully experienced it yet.
My mind won’t sit still because it knows there is still a chapter missing.
The only problem is timing.
The version of the beach I keep imagining happens very early in the morning or very late in the evening.
The quiet version.
The peaceful version.
The unfiltered version.
The version where the world feels like it belongs only to you for a little while.
But those times come with their own concerns.
Safety.
Practicality.
Reality.
So for now, the beach remains an unfinished story.
A place I’ve visited many times but somehow haven’t fully met.
Maybe the beach has never really been the point.
Maybe it has been trying to teach me something.
That somewhere along the way, I became so focused on preserving the experience that I stopped fully experiencing it.
Perhaps that’s why the beach keeps calling me back.
Not because it wants me to visit again.
But because it wants me to finally arrive.
To stop observing life from a safe distance.
To stop planning every moment.
To stop worrying about what I’ll wear, what I’ll look like, or how uncomfortable it might be.
Just… be.
Maybe one day soon, I’ll wake up before sunrise.
I’ll leave my shoes behind.
I’ll let the sand cling to my feet.
I’ll let the cold water surprise me.
I’ll sit without checking the time.
I’ll read until the words blur into the sound of the waves.
I’ll watch the sky change colours.
And for once, I won’t be thinking about the journey home before I’ve even arrived.
Maybe I’ll discover that the peace I’ve been searching for was never hidden in the beach at all.
Maybe it has always been waiting on the other side of letting go.
And if that day comes, I hope I leave with more than photographs.
I hope I leave with salt on my skin.
I hope I leave with a memory instead of an idea.
Sand in my shoes.
A quieter mind.
And a reminder that the best moments in life rarely happen when we are trying to protect ourselves from them.
With Love,
Ayo
⸻
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