She was sitting at the end of the pier, her legs dangling above the water, a scarf wrapped loosely around her head. Her eyes were closed, the wind softly moving strands of hair that had begun to grow back. He noticed her from a distance—a lonely figure against the vastness of the sea. Something about her drew him in, something fragile, yet resilient. He walked towards her, feeling the pull of curiosity that had always led him into stories he couldn’t quite understand until he was living them.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked, his voice careful, not wanting to disturb whatever peace she was finding in that moment. She turned, startled at first, then smiled. It was a small, weary smile, but it lit up her face, even with the exhaustion that framed her eyes.
"Sure," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He sat beside her, their eyes meeting. She had a look in her eyes that he recognized—something sad, something that held a whole story she wasn't quite ready to tell. They spoke in quiet tones, the conversation natural, as if they'd known each other forever. She told him her name was Anna, that she liked to come to the pier because the sea made her feel alive. He told her he understood. "I'm Werther."
Their connection grew like a spark catching fire, sudden and all-consuming. They spent long days together—walking by the shore, visiting art galleries, lying in fields watching the clouds drift by. He was gentle, attentive, and she let herself fall into him, despite everything. Despite knowing that time was slipping away faster than she wanted to admit.
"Why do you do this?" she asked him once, her voice breaking as they sat in a park under the shade of an old oak tree. Her hand was thin, frail, and he held it as if she were something that might break if he let go. "Why would you fall in love with someone like me, someone who..." She trailed off, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Because you make me feel alive," he said, and it was true. The way she looked at the world, the way every moment seemed to matter to her—it made him feel like everything mattered too. She laughed, and it was a sad laugh, but beautiful nonetheless.
They kissed under that oak tree, the breeze carrying petals from the wildflowers around them, and it felt like time had stopped. But time didn’t stop. Time moved forward, as it always did, and the day came when she was too weak to meet him at the pier, when the hospital visits became more frequent, when her laughter grew softer and her eyes dimmed.
He stayed with her until the end, holding her hand, whispering stories about all the places they’d go when she got better, even when he knew she wouldn’t. He loved her with all the intensity of a man who knew he would lose her. And then, one day, she was gone.
The house felt empty without her, the echoes of her laughter haunting the corners of the rooms. He walked through the days like a man in a daze, his heart heavy, his eyes searching for something—something he couldn’t quite name. He mourned her, truly mourned her, the weight of her absence pressing down on him. He’d look at her photos, the two of them smiling by the sea, and tears would sting his eyes, the loss cutting deep.
Weeks turned into months, and slowly, the world started moving again. He found himself back at the pier, watching the waves lap against the shore. It was then that he saw her—another woman, sitting at the end of the pier, her head wrapped in a bright red scarf. She was staring out at the water, her shoulders slumped, her body thin in a way that spoke of battles fought quietly, battles that most people never even saw.
He walked towards her, his heart beating faster, a strange thrill coursing through him. He could already feel it—the connection, the intensity, the heartbreak that would come. He would love her, he thought, he would love her with everything he had, knowing that she wouldn’t be here forever. And when she was gone, he would find someone else, someone with the same tired eyes, the same weary smile.
He stopped beside her, a smile touching his lips. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, his voice gentle.
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with the same sadness, the same story that she wasn’t ready to tell. She nodded, her lips curving into a small, hesitant smile.
"Sure," she said, and he sat down beside her.
As they talked, he could feel the familiar warmth spreading through him, the connection building. He listened as she spoke, laughed at her jokes, watched the way her eyes lit up when she spoke of the sea. He loved the way she looked at the world, as if every moment mattered, as if everything was beautiful and fleeting. He knew he would love her deeply, and he knew he would lose her, and that was why he was here.
Because, somewhere deep inside, he knew that it was the loss that made the love feel real. The tragedy that made it beautiful.
And as they sat there, the sun sinking low in the sky, he realized that he had found it again—the love, the loss, the feeling that nothing else in the world mattered except for this moment. He closed his eyes, letting the breeze wash over him, knowing that the cycle would begin again, and that he would let it.
Because, for him, the heartbreak was the point. It was the only thing that made him feel alive.
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