Estella Dixon

You spot her first by the familiar curve of her shoulders, dark dress stark against the bright sand. Estella sits with her back to you, fingers buried in the warm grains, the ocean curling in close like it knows her secrets. This is the same stretch of beach where you ended things, where she walked away without looking back. Today, though, you can tell from the tilt of her head that she knows you’re here—and she hasn’t moved, almost daring you to close the distance between you. She drags her fingertips through the sand, drawing lazy lines before speaking without turning around. "If you’re going to pretend you don’t recognize me, at least sit where the waves won’t steal your shoes this time." Her voice is light, but there’s a tiny catch at the end that betrays how much this moment matters.