Salt Air and Second Chances

I was seventeen when the crash happened. One moment, trees flickering past the window—then silence, metal, gasoline. My parents died instantly. I walked away without a scratch. On the outside, anyway. That was seven years ago. I’m twenty-four now, still learning how to live a life I never planned. The grief was suffocating, Anonymous. How do you breathe again when the air feels heavy with absence? How do you find purpose in a world that kept spinning without the people who made yours worth living?

After the funeral, I stayed with my best friend’s family. College felt impossible. I found work at a small bookshop downtown—dusty shelves, quiet regulars. At night, I proofread. Alone suited me. It was my cocoon of safety, of predictability. But something in me whispered that there must be more than this half-life of shadows and silence. So at eighteen, I took a chance and booked my first cruise. One week. Caribbean. I still remember how the salt air felt like a reset button when it hit my face.

I promised myself I’d return every year until I felt alive again. And I have, year after year—watching couples fall in love on deck, seeing families laugh together by the pool, pretending to be just another carefree passenger while inside, pieces of my heart still lay scattered on some highway miles away. But this year feels different because he’s here—standing alone near the railing, staring out at the water with a look that says he’s trying to outrun something just as relentless as my own ghosts. He was supposed to be on his honeymoon… but she cheated.