Laudeith is a quiet coastal town tucked between slow hills and the restless sea. Not many know of it, and that's exactly why I love it. It's not big enough to be on anyone's radar, but just alive enough to carry its own pulse—cobbled streets, little cafes with chipped paint, and a bookstore that still smells like old paper and sea salt. The buildings lean a little from the wind, and the air always holds a hint of brine. When the sun rises, the town glows in soft hues of pink and gold, like it's blushing under the warmth of being noticed.
Some people call this town an art city—well, because the biggest thing and the most famous building here is Laudeith Academy of Arts. It's actually the perfect place for me, who ran away from my past and blend in the society.
It's barely past 4 AM when I throw on a coral hoodie, tie my hair up, and slip out of the apartment with only a sketchbook in my hand and some coins inside my pocket. The city is still half-asleep, murmuring in low streetlamp hums and the shuffle of early morning delivery trucks. Spring air is cool on my face, salty by the time I reach the coast.
The beach is empty. Just the soft crash of waves and the moonlight reflection on the sea. I kick off my sandals and walk barefoot on the sand, letting it hug my feet. It's the only place that feels like it listens without asking anything in return.
Last night plays in fragments in my head—Elliot's voice, the ache in his eyes, the bitter thread in his words. I should feel resolved. Instead, I feel cracked open. Like some old bruise has been pressed just a little too hard.
I sit near the shoreline and open my sketchbook. The pencil in my hand moves on instinct more than intent. I don't know what I'm drawing until I realize it's a silhouette. Someone slouched against a wall, shadowed eyes, lips caught mid-sigh.
I tear the page out before I finish it. I hate the fact that I don't like drawing characters, yet my fingers always draw one.
"Bad dreams?"
The voice startles me, low and smooth like the tide itself. I turn, squinting against the light. Theo. Huh? What's he doing here? At 4 AM? At the beach?
He's standing just a few feet away, barefoot in the sand, black buttoned-up shirt. A backpack slung carelessly on one shoulder. Even in times like this, he always looks so neat. His eyes meet mine, unreadable.
"What are you doing here? 4 AM?" I ask.
He shrugs, stepping closer. "Could ask you the same."
I smile faintly. "My apartment is near here. But—trouble sleeping."
"Same."
Theo sits beside me without asking, stretching his long legs out in front of him. For a while, we just watch the ocean together. It's easy in a way that startles me. No pressure to fill silence, no hovering expectations. Just ... a peaceful companion.
After a few minutes, I ask, "So, you come here often?"
He shrugs. "Sometimes, when I can't sleep."
"I never saw you before. I always come to here at dawn or whenever I have artblock."
"Our paths hadn't meant to be crossed before."
My heart is pounding wild. That line hits me hard. He said it so calmly, like it's a very normal thing to say. But it flutters me. It sounds poetic, and tragic—at some points.
He continues, "But yeah. I'm more of a vanish-before-dawn type. Maybe I was already gone when you came here."
Something about the honesty in that makes me glance sideways at him. There's a weight behind his words, something he's not saying.
"Is that what you're doing now? Vanishing?" I ask.
He looks at me, and for a second I forget to breathe. His gaze is soft but piercing, like he sees too much. Always like that since the beginning.
"Maybe," he murmurs, "or maybe I'm just ... not running this time."
I lower my eyes. "I ran once." Theo doesn't ask, but he waits. I think that's what makes it so easy to speak. "I left someone. Someone who once meant everything. And now I can't tell if he hates me or still wants to own me. Maybe both."
Theo doesn't flinch. He just says, quietly, "Sounds like a person who doesn't know how to love without hurting."
I nod slowly. Contemplating his words. "Yeah. That's exactly what it felt like. I couldn't deny that he truly loved me, but it hurt me at the same time."
He reaches over, not to touch me, but to pluck my torn sketch from the sand. He looks at it. "This him?"
I pause. Oh. So, that's him. I didn't realize that I drew Elliot. Well, only a silhouette, though. But it was him. I then nod.
Theo folds the page neatly, then tucks it into the back of my sketchbook. "Don't let him take up space in here," he says, tapping the cover.
His hand lingers just a moment too long before pulling away. I don't know what comes over me then, but I ask, softly, "And what about you, Theo? Who takes up space in your head?"
He looks out to the sea again. His voice is low. "No one. Not anymore."
And I feel it—the echo in that silence. The kind of emptiness that doesn't just appear. It gets carved out.
We stay like that until the sun slips over the edge of the world. It bathes everything in gold. His profile, lit in amber light, is almost too beautiful to look at.
"I should get back," I say eventually, though I don't move.
Theo nods. "Yeah. Me too."
But neither of us stands. He looks at me again, and something in his eyes shifts—like the tide just pulled something new onto the shore. "Next time you can't sleep," he says, "meet me here."
No, he doesn't ask for my phone number or my social media. He just said that. A promise. A hopeful promise. The one Romeo gave to Juliet. I find myself craving for another insomnia night so I can meet him here again.
And before I can answer, he stands, and walks away. I don't know what this is. Or what it could be. But the air smells like salt and beginnings, and I think, just maybe, Theo and I have chemistry. Just by the way we look at each other.
Or did I read too many romance novels?