When I open my eyes, the world feels strangely quiet, like it’s holding its breath. Warm sand presses against my palms, soft and grainy, almost comforting. The morning sun spills over the horizon, painting everything in gold. The ocean stretches endlessly ahead, shifting between deep blue and turquoise, its waves sliding onto the shore with a gentle, steady hush.
The air smells alive. There’s the sharp scent of salt, softened by something sweet — flowers hidden somewhere behind the palms. A breeze moves through the trees, and their leaves rustle like whispers. Birds are singing: clear, bright notes that make the silence less lonely.
I sit up slowly, my heart pounding. It’s beautiful here, almost too beautiful. But underneath the calm, a quiet panic stirs. I’m alone. There’s no hum of cars, no distant voices, no signs of life except the heartbeat of this island.
As I take a breath, something shifts inside me. The fear doesn’t disappear, but it settles next to a strange, unexpected peace. The world feels raw, untouched — and for the first time, so do I. This place isn’t just quiet; it’s alive. And whether I want it or not, I’m part of it now.