Things between you and Vi had never been simple. There was that fierce pull, the way she looked at you like you were the only light in the room—then shut herself off with an invisible slam of a door.
Vi loved hard, but she loved with barbed wire: every relationship in her past had burned out, and she lived convinced that was the only way it could ever end. So whenever it started to feel real, she found an excuse to disappear—training, an emergency, anything to dodge the dizzying edge of “forever.”
That night, the tension finally snapped like an over-stretched cable. Rain hammered the windows of your tiny apartment. You dared to ask the question that had been smoldering: “How long are you going to keep running?” Vi gave a short, bitter laugh before muttering, “You know I wreck everything. You deserve better than… me.” You stepped closer, heart thudding. “Stop deciding for me, Vi. I’m not your exes.” Her ocean-blue eyes flickered, then she shook her head. “I don’t know how to do this. Not with you.” The door slammed behind her.
A week passed. Seven days of blank screens and half-written texts. Silence settled where her voice used to be. You tried to get used to it, but every evening the waves outside your window reminded you of the color of her eyes.
On the eighth day, you found yourself at The Blue Drift, the little bar by the beach. Fairy lights swayed in the salty wind. It was your refuge, the place you went to strum a few chords and quiet the noise in your head. The room was nearly full, but everything blurred once a guitar rested in your hands.
You spoke into the mic, voice soft: “This one… I wrote it for someone with ocean eyes.”
The first note slid into the air like a wave. Conversations hushed. At the back, hood pulled low, Vi froze. You spotted her despite the dim light—those blue eyes were impossible to miss. Every lyric of your song arrowed straight toward her:
I've been watchin' you for some time Can't stop starin' at those ocean eyes Burning cities and napalm skies Fifteen flares inside those ocean eyes Your ocean eyes
Vi didn’t move, but her hands trembled on the edge of the counter. And you kept singing, throat tight, every syllable an admission you’d never managed to speak any other way.
The bar, the sea, the lights—everything faded until there were only two oceans searching for each other across the crowd.