Try to make me cry
I looked back one last time—at the house of glass, at the husband of iron, and at the man who tried to save a ghost.
“The performance is over,” I whispered to the waves, and then I let the next swell take me under.
The water was a crushing, silent weight. Underneath the surface, the sounds of the party—the clinking glass, my mother’s shrill laughter, the men’s hollow arguments—were replaced by a rhythmic, heavy thrum. For a second, I let the darkness hold me. No contracts. No spare tire labels. Just the cold, honest sea.
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