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Sunlight glitters on the waves as salt-kissed air tangles your hair—you’d choose something effortless, soft. A linen sundress, maybe, the color of sea foam, frayed at the hem from last summer’s adventures. Bare feet, always, toes digging into damp sand, but you’d slip on leather sandals for the walk home—straps sun-bleached, soles worn thin. Hair loose, wild with the wind’s whims, a single braid tucked behind one ear fastened with a copper cuff stolen from your mother’s jewelry box years ago. No bag, just a seashell in your pocket—something to fidget with when his laugh catches you off-guard. A anklet, perhaps, strung with mismatched beads from that trip to Mexico, because stories matter more than polish. You’d smell like coconut sunscreen and reckless optimism. And when he says your name, you’ll pretend not to notice how the horizon bends around him.
