the wave always returns, and always returns as a different wave.
—
sakura never knew what hit her.
but that's a lie. maybe sometimes, when she doesn't focus too sharply, she can manage to fool herself; it takes a smile often, more than not; a softly-spoken word to the neighbor down the way—she lives at least a mile down the road—but it always falls apart too easily.
it only takes a glimpse in the mirror, when the fog clears after a scalding shower. her fingertips dance across the bleary, red-eyed girl staring back at her, soaked to the bone; naked, and adorned with scars of her own making.
because it's never been anyone's fault but her own.
is that right? sakura doesn't question herself anymore—it makes her lies grow stale so much faster—but the faintest hint of doubt occupies a shadowy space in her thoughts.
the men's jacket hanging in her closet; the green toothbrush perched next to her purple; the old boots set beside her back door, they tell a different story. she finds herself staring down at them in the most noiseless of mornings, long after the shriek of the teapot has faded away to silence. she holds a lukewarm mug between her palms and the scent of chamomile wafts in the air, dusting pink cheeks before she turns away from the sight—from those shoes too large for her own feet. the movement is abrupt. she's lost.
who was there?
certainly no one now. the loneliness festers like an open wound. it seeps bitterness and regret when she gets dressed in the morning; when she braids lengthy pink strands down her spine and offers her reflection a tired, sad little smile.
there are nights when sleep escapes her.
her bed, too big for one, threatens to swallow her alongside her nightmares—where faceless shadows haunt her every step. sakura makes a habit of wandering her hallways then, and now, the dusty wooden floors bear scuffs from her wool socks, when hours are wiled away pacing in the glow of a faded moon.
sakura stares at it, while her mind wanders beyond her station in the small cabin; beyond the ominous clouds that linger permanently on the horizon. years have passed since anyone has seen the bare, whole sun; without the cover of thick, heavy mist. maybe it's had an effect on more than just her. she wonders at the slowing of time; at the quiet of the market in the city, the hush of the temples on the hills, the empty hospital nurseries. the wail of a newborn is a foreign concept; the laugh of a child even more so.
pale, slender fingers wander south, across the flat plane of her belly and absently, she supposes she might've liked one, someday.
maybe it'd lighten the weight of the silence.
.
.
.
it is in the glare of the stark, cold sun that she exits her home for the last time. she toes her sandals on, gathers her waist-length hair into a loose bun at her nape, and steps onto the silvery sands. the beach, no more than a stone's throw from her front porch, greets her with a steadily loudening roar.
from one breath to the next, sakura glances over her shoulder. the desolate lighthouse at her back, with its warmly lit glow circling 'round the bay, stands as sentry and witness to her every stride.
the sprinkling of saltwater on her collarbone; the dangerous lapping of cold water at her ankles, then her knees and thighs, soaking into the wispy white fabric of her dress, barely rouses her from her own musings. she'd left the coffee maker on.
of all the things to recall, it is this—a lonely red button left untapped on her kitchen counter—that slows her steady pace.
there are things unfinished. dishes to wash, socks to darn; a home left abandoned by its sole occupants. though truthfully, sakura had tasted neglect long before she ventured outside her front door.
she swallows the taste of decayed hope lingering in the back of her throat; the knot threatening to choke her on her next inhalation. her toes dig hard into the wet, shifting sands beneath her feet; a vain resistance against the pull of the waves. her arms hang uselessly at her sides, fingers curled against her hips. only then does she cast a look to the heavens. obscured, the light shining past is barely enough to warrant a squint. the breeze, scented with brine, provides a greater sense of comfort than even she expects.
a surprise, yes. but a welcome one.
the knick-knacks left on the shore—her shoes, her seafoam hat, her wedding band—would continue to exist without their owner; her coffee maker would turn itself off eventually.
the ghosts living in her house would find another poor soul to haunt.
with that last consideration, sakura takes another step forward; takes one last, solitary breath of that salty september air—
and falls into oblivion.