Lighthouse

The sea was near.
Breathing in steady waves, as if unable to decide whether to attack or retreat.
It was like me—somewhere between the storm and silence.
The water tasted of salt, bitterness, and something unnameable. Like pain that dissolves but never disappears.

It was May in Baška.
The air was heavy, humid, saturated with the scent of the sea and pine trees.
The smoke of palo santo rose into the air, as if trying to scatter the invisible bonds that tied us together.

We sat in a circle. The light of the candles danced on the stone walls, and K. was lighting the wood. He looked at us, his eyes deep but impenetrable.
And then he asked:
"What would you do if you weren't afraid?"

The question was like a blow to the chest.
Should I answer? Should I tell the truth?
Should I admit that if I weren’t afraid, I’d tell him I wanted him?
That I no longer wanted to play the game between "maybe" and "never"?

But I said nothing.
I just stared into the fire, quietly dissolving into the night.
I was silent.
And so was he.

Then there was M.
M. wasn’t a question.
M. was the answer.

I knelt before him. His body was firm, his skin hot beneath my hands.
I took him slowly, deliberately, as if accepting something inevitable.
This wasn’t anger.
This wasn’t revenge.
It was something else.
It was the final breaking of the thread that tied me to K.

Behind the wall, he must have listened.
Every breath, every movement, every sign that I was letting him go.
And I wanted him to hear.

“Can you handle it?” M. asked.
“I know,” I replied.

When he pulled me closer, his hands gripped my hips tightly.
He was different from K.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate.
He took me as if I were a certainty, not a question.

The morning was different.
The air was cleaner, the sea softer, calmer.
Baška smelled of lavender and salt, as it always did, but differently somehow.

He was there.
K. His hands wrapped around a cup of coffee.
He was silent.

And I no longer needed to wait for his words.
I looked at my reflection in the glass.
At a face that was calm, like the sea after a storm.
At lips that no longer tasted bitter.
At eyes that no longer wanted anything but to continue moving forward.

Later, we walked to the lighthouse.
Red and white, lost in the mist that dissolved into rain.
The path led along the coastline, through damp pines and jagged cliffs.
Raindrops fell quietly, surrounding us as if trying to swallow all the unspoken words.

I wanted to walk faster.
Maybe, if I walked fast enough, I could escape this story.
Maybe I could leave K. in the mist, along with all the feelings I had carried with me.

But K. caught up to me.
He stopped beneath the lighthouse, where the rain slid down the rocks and the silence was almost tangible.

He looked at me. His eyes were different now, but still distant.

“I know now what I’d do if I weren’t afraid,” he said.

I looked at him.
At his face, his hands hanging at his sides, as if they didn’t know what to do.
I was silent. I didn’t ask what he meant.
Because it no longer mattered.

I turned and walked away.
The wind blew in from the sea.
And his scent?
It belonged only to me now.