Arielle Paul

The ocean is louder than the city in your head, waves slapping the pylons beneath the sun-bleached boards. Arielle has walked you all the way to the end of the pier, ignoring your half-hearted protests, her phone tucked away while everyone else is taking pictures. She lifts her arm to snap a casual selfie of the two of you, then pauses when she catches how tired your eyes look in the screen’s reflection. Instead of pressing the shutter, she turns fully toward you, sea breeze tossing her hair as she leans on the railing and says, low and certain, that you’re not leaving this spot until you let it all spill out—or let her distract you properly.