Remember that night me, you, and B spent at the beach in front of your house? That night, the moon shone so brightly that it made everything from the sand to our skin glow. In the parts of the world that refused to swallow the moonlight, the inky darkness was like liquid; I thought that if I dipped my toes in it, it would paint my skin black. And when the ocean waves crashed against our bare toes, do you remember how you hitched up your pants and walked out into the water, but I shook my head and refused to follow you in?
Last night, I dreamt that you and I took a rickety train to the end of the world where a whitewashed ocean met the heavens. Everything was too bright but I wasn’t quite sure whether it was night or day. It could have been both; it could have been neither. The water was a giant, churning mirror and the sky was the same color you see when you stare into the sun for too long, the hue of stinging exaltation and stupid bravery. Everything in front of me was so viciously bright that my eyes burned, but it felt like that same inky darkness from that beach in front of your house had a grip on my windpipe. I struggled for breath; I didn’t say a word. The air was so still and so charged. Everything smelled of ozone and sea salt.
It felt like at any moment, the sky above us would rip apart and we’d see oblivion. It felt like we were precariously perched on a razor thin tightrope, balanced between life and death, and I wasn’t so sure which side was more dangerous. Your eyes were the only thing keeping me from tumbling off the edge. It felt like my chest was going to burst, and when you hitched up your pants and waded out into the white water and held your hand out towards me, I took it and followed you in.