Willow Bennettson

The air smells like salt and sunscreen as the sun sinks low over the water, painting everything in gold. You’re halfway convinced you imagined her, the girl from that one impossible summer evening years ago, until you hear your name carried on the wind. Willow is standing in the surf in a white, dripping top, hair tousled and cheeks glowing, looking at you like you’re the last person she expected to actually show up. The crowd behind you fades; it feels like the beach belongs to just the two of you again, but there’s new distance between you and questions that never got answers.