THE SKY IS STILL OURS

The first thing I noticed was how loud the ocean sounded when you were alone. Waves didn’t just crash — they whispered, sighed, and sometimes groaned like they were tired of existing. Tonight, they sounded tired. Or maybe that was just me. I pulled my sweater tighter around myself and let my toes dig into the cool sand beneath the wooden bench. The night air smelled like salt, and there was this faint metallic tang that only came out when it was about to rain. The moon hung low, bright enough to paint the shoreline silver. It was 11:23 PM — late enough for the world to feel like it had shrunk down to just me and the sea. I liked that feeling. Except… liking it didn’t mean I wasn’t lonely. --- I’d been coming here for months, ever since… well, since things got complicated. People thought I loved the ocean because it was peaceful, but the truth was, I came here because I didn’t know where else to go. At home, the walls felt too close. In town, people asked too many questions. Here, the ocean didn’t ask me anything. I was halfway through tracing circles in the sand with the tip of my shoe when I heard it — footsteps. Slow. Uneven. Crunching softly against the sand, growing louder. I froze. Not because I was scared — okay, maybe a little — but because this late at night, I didn’t expect anyone else to be here. The footsteps stopped right behind the bench. --- “Is this seat taken?” I turned my head slightly, not enough to look directly. A tall figure stood there, hoodie up, a camera hanging from his neck. His voice was low, smooth, like he was afraid to disturb the quiet. “Not really,” I said. He didn’t wait for an invitation. Just sat down on the far end of the bench, leaving a respectful gap between us. The wood creaked softly under his weight. --- For a while, we didn’t speak. The ocean filled the silence for us. I could feel him looking out at the horizon, same as me, like we were watching the exact same thing but for different reasons. “I don’t usually see anyone here this late,” he said finally. “Same to you,” I replied, hugging my knees. He gave a small chuckle. “Fair enough.” --- There was another pause. It wasn’t uncomfortable — just… quiet. Shared quiet. The kind that makes you realize some people don’t need to fill the air with small talk. Then he said, almost to himself, “Do you ever think about how the sky’s always there, no matter where you are?” I blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I guess… yeah?” “It’s like…” He tilted his head, still staring at the sky. “Even if we’re far apart, we’re still under the same sky. That’s kind of comforting, don’t you think?” Something in the way he said it made me glance at him. The moonlight caught the curve of his jaw. His lips curled slightly, not quite a smile, more like a secret he wasn’t going to tell me. “I never really thought about it that way,” I admitted. “But… yeah. Maybe it is comforting.” --- The wind picked up. A cold shiver ran down my spine, and I instinctively wrapped my arms tighter around myself. “You cold?” he asked, turning toward me for the first time. “A little,” I said. Without another word, he slipped off his hoodie and held it out. “Here.” I shook my head. “You’ll be cold.” “I’m fine,” he said, nudging it toward me. “Take it. I insist.” I hesitated, but the wind convinced me. Pulling the hoodie over my head, I was met with a faint, clean scent — a mix of cedarwood and something ocean-like. --- “You come here often?” I asked. “Whenever I need to think,” he said. “Or when the city feels too loud.” “You’re not from here?” “No. I’m staying for a while. Work stuff.” He adjusted his camera strap. “And you?” “I live here,” I said. “Born and raised.” He grinned faintly. “Everywhere looks peaceful when you’re just visiting.” --- My gaze drifted to his camera. “What do you take pictures of?” “The sky,” he said simply. “Sunsets, sunrises… stars, if I’m lucky.” I tilted my head. “Why the sky?” “Because it’s always different. And because it’s always there,” he replied. “No matter what happens in your life, you can always look up. It’ll be there, waiting.” There was something about his tone — quiet, certain — that made me feel like he was talking about more than just the sky. --- The conversation shifted to lighter things. Favorite food. Music that made us cry. Whether pineapple belonged on pizza. We disagreed on that last one — violently. At some point, I realized my cheeks hurt from smiling. We stayed there until the tide began to creep closer to the shore. It was past 2 AM when he stood up. “I should go.” “Yeah,” I said reluctantly. He took a few steps, then turned back. “What’s your name?” “Rania.” “Arka,” he said, with a small nod. “See you around, Rania.” --- I watched him walk away, the camera swaying at his side. I didn’t know it yet, but that was the first of many nights we’d spend under the same sky. The waves kept rolling in after he left, but somehow, the beach felt different. It was like his presence had altered the air — a subtle warmth that lingered even though the night wind kept trying to steal it away. I tugged the hoodie closer around me. It was a little too big, the sleeves swallowing my hands. The fabric was soft, worn in a way that told me it had been used often, maybe on nights like this. I should’ve given it back. Normal people don’t just keep a stranger’s hoodie. But there was something about the way he’d handed it to me — like it wasn’t just a piece of clothing, but a small, silent promise: You’re safe here. --- When I finally left the bench, the sand was cool under my sneakers. I walked slowly, letting the waves follow me at a distance. The moonlight lit up the shoreline, revealing tiny shells and strands of seaweed tangled like messy handwriting. I kept replaying our conversation in my head. The randomness of it. The ease. It had been months since I’d talked to someone that way — without the pressure of pretending I was fine, without the weight of people’s expectations. Most of my days were predictable: wake up, drag myself through work, go home, repeat. People around here knew me enough to greet me, but not enough to notice if something was wrong. Or maybe they noticed and just didn’t ask. Arka didn’t know me at all, and yet… in that short time, it felt like he’d actually seen me. --- By the time I got home, it was almost three. The street was quiet, save for the occasional barking of a dog somewhere in the distance. My little apartment sat at the edge of town, close enough to the ocean that I could hear it faintly at night if I kept the window open. I tossed my bag onto the couch and headed straight to my room, still wearing his hoodie. I should’ve changed, but instead, I sat on my bed, pulled my knees up, and stared at the moon through the window. The sky looked the same as it had at the beach — vast, endless, indifferent. But now, when I looked at it, I couldn’t help but imagine that somewhere, maybe not too far away, Arka was looking at it too. --- The next evening, I found myself back on that same bench, even though I told myself I wasn’t waiting for him. I had a book with me this time — something to keep my hands busy, something to convince myself I was here for me, not for a stranger with a camera. The sky was streaked with faint pink, slowly darkening into indigo. Every set of footsteps I heard made my chest tighten, only to ease again when it wasn’t him. It wasn’t until the first stars appeared that I heard a familiar voice. “You again,” he said, sounding almost amused. --- I looked up, trying — and probably failing — to hide the small smile tugging at my lips. “You sound surprised.” “I am,” he admitted, settling onto the bench without asking this time. “Didn’t think I’d see you here two nights in a row.” I shrugged. “Maybe I like the view.” He glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. “The view, huh?” I rolled my eyes. “I meant the ocean.” “Sure,” he said, smirking like he didn’t believe me. --- This time, he set his camera on his lap and started scrolling through the photos. I tried not to look, but curiosity won. They weren’t just snapshots — they were pieces of time. Sunsets where the clouds looked like they were on fire, waves frozen mid-crash, constellations scattered across black velvet skies. “You’re good,” I said without thinking. He looked up, almost startled. “Thanks.” “What do you do with all of them?” I asked. “Some I keep. Some I sell. Most just… sit in my hard drive,” he said, shrugging. “Not everything needs to be seen to be worth capturing.” Something about that felt heavier than it should. --- The hours slipped by again without us noticing. And just like the night before, when we finally said goodbye, the wind felt colder. But my chest… my chest felt a little warmer than it had all week. --- I didn’t know why I kept coming back after that. Or maybe I did. Maybe it was the way his presence made the bench feel less like a piece of worn wood and more like a place that mattered. Over the next week, we fell into an unspoken routine. We didn’t meet every night, but often enough that it stopped feeling like coincidence. Sometimes we talked for hours. Sometimes we just sat there, each lost in our own thoughts, letting the ocean speak for us. It was simple. Easy. Comforting. And in the back of my mind, I kept hearing his voice from that first night: Even if we’re far apart, we’re still under the same sky. I didn’t realize then how much I would cling to those words. How much I would need them.