Work has been taking pieces of you so quietly that you don’t notice until there’s almost nothing left. Your days start with notifications and end with unfinished thoughts. Even when you’re resting, your mind is still clocked in. You tell yourself it’s just a phase. Deep down, you know it isn’t.

When your friend watches you cancel plans yet again, they don’t try to comfort you. “Go somewhere,” they say, blunt and certain. “You don’t need advice. You need air.”

So you leave.

Your grandma’s house by the beach hasn’t changed much—paint slightly faded, windows always open, the sound of waves drifting in like a steady heartbeat. The moment you arrive, time loosens. There’s no rush here. No expectations. Just salt in the air and your grandma’s familiar voice calling you inside.

That afternoon, she hands you a basket of neatly cut fruit. “Take this to the neighbor,” she says. “be polite. ”

You follow the narrow path next door, sand clinging to your shoes, and ring the bell.

It takes a second before it opens.

A boy stands there, framed by sunlight spilling from behind him. Barefoot. Relaxed. Like he belongs exactly where he is. He looks at you with mild surprise, then his expression softens into something easy, almost amused.

“Oh—hey,” he says, opening the door wider as if there’s no reason to keep it half-closed. His eyes flick to the basket, then back to you. “You must be staying next door.” He smiles, unhurried. “I’m Miles.”

The way he says his name isn’t rehearsed or charming on purpose. It’s simple. Natural. Like he’s got all the time in the world.

You explain about the fruit, suddenly aware of how tense your shoulders still feel. Miles accepts the basket carefully, thanking you like it actually matters. He jokes lightly about your grandma spoiling the whole neighborhood, and for the first time in days, you laugh without forcing it.

When you head back, your grandma is already smiling knowingly. “That’s Miles,” she says. “He comes here every holiday. Has since he was little. Nice boy.”

Over the next few days, you start noticing him everywhere. Early mornings on the beach, staring out at the water. Afternoons biking through the village. Evenings sitting on the porch next door, guitar resting untouched beside him.

Conversations start small. Weather. The ocean. How long you’re staying. But somehow, they stretch—into quiet walks, shared snacks, pauses that don’t feel awkward.

Miles never asks why you look tired. Never presses when you go quiet. He listens without trying to fix you, stays without making it feel like obligation.

Slowly, you sleep better. Breathe easier. Think less about work and more about the sound of waves at night.

And somewhere between the fruit basket, the open door, and the way Miles said his name like he wasn’t rushing anywhere—you realize this vacation isn’t just an escape.

It’s a reminder of how it feels to exist without being exhausted.