The Cliffs by the Sea​

Tall cliffs rise from the ocean, their rocky faces weathered by wind and waves. Seagulls nest in the crevices, their cries mixing with the roar of the surf below. At high tide, the waves crash against the base of the cliffs, sending up sprays of white foam that catch the sunlight. Wild grasses grow on the top, swaying in the strong sea breeze, and from the edge, you can see for miles—nothing but blue water meeting the sky. It’s a place of raw power, of nature’s strength, but also of fragile beauty, as the cliffs slowly erode, a reminder of time’s passage.​

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I walk past our old corner café, and my feet stop on their own. The sign still says “Open 7 AM,” just like it did when we’d meet here every Saturday, you with your black coffee, me with chai. I can almost see you through the window, grinning as you’d steal a sip of my drink. The barista recognizes me, asks if I want “the usual.” I shake my head, throat tight. Some places hold too much—too many smiles, too many “see you tomorrows” that turned into “goodbyes.” I keep walking, but my heart lingers, tracing the cracks in the sidewalk where we used to stand.

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