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In Andrea’s final moments, my look wasn’t just makeup—it was a mirror. The garnet liner, once strong above the eye, slipped below, almost like tears. Sarai shaped her journey in color: brown shadows above, freckles across the cheeks, and also softness where there was once fire. It’s subtle, but if you look close, it tells the story.
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Sunburnt shoulders, salt in our hair, and coconuts promised from the sky. We watched him climb like it was instinct—bare hands, bare tree, no fear—while we played pretend under giant teeth carved into coral stone. The breeze made everything feel lighter, our laughter echoing louder than the waves. It was wild, strange, and a little bit magical—how we like.
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As free as the sea—that’s how I felt. No map, no anchor, just the quiet rebellion of drifting wherever the tide decided. There’s a softness in surrendering, a strength in letting go. I moved like the waves, unrushed and unapologetic, carrying stories only the wind could hear. If the sea could speak, I think it would understand me.
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