By Brielle Benjamin

she writes when there is no time,
when the clock’s hand is close to the sound of a bell.
she picks up the seashells when the sand is damp,
and the sound of the waves are far into the void.
when the sun sets, she sips her lemonade,
as if there were nothing to be afraid of,
nothing to hide from. not even the darkness.
the world was too big for her to care,
but eventually, it became small enough–
so small that the dark ink seeped in.
the clouds turned gray at first,
then the sky was the color of midnight,
the sea was struck colder than before,
and the city lights…
the golden gleams were the only thing that kept her warm.
she watches from her window.
the empty beach and the sand that she can no longer walk on are in a blur.
she doesn’t leave her apartment.
she doesn’t go outside, not when the splatters of ink are everywhere.
she doesn’t want to stain her hands.
a year passes. her bed is now the only warm thing in her world.
in her big, but small world.
small enough to care, big enough to not.
her room became the only place she knew.
she doesn’t remember how salty the ocean air was,
she doesn’t remember how the sand felt beneath her feet.
she doesn’t remember that the world was too big for her to care and that she didn’t. she did not care.
the only thing she remembered was how the ticking of the clock’s hand pushed her to write more,
more,
more,
and more.
and so she did.
she wrote pages, filling the paper with her emotions.
she used the ink from outside,
filling her papers with her stories.
stroke after stroke, letter after letter,
the ink started to fade.
the sea began to crash onto the shore like before,
but she doesn’t remember.
the sky became the strangely familiar blue,
but she doesn’t remember.
the clouds became less and were light and mellow,
but she doesn’t remember.
so for the first time in a while,
she walked along the beach barefoot.
the seashells were different.
they were still dark from the ink that engulfed the water.
she doesn’t pick them up.
she sips her lemonade, but it isn’t the same.
it tastes different, more bitter.
she wants to go back into her room. her small, small world.
she doesn’t want to be at the place she used to love.
the beach doesn’t feel the same.
the seashells, and her lemonade.
she cares way too much about what the world will be.
how she will be.
she worries that everything won’t be the same anymore.
how every simple thing just a year ago was just existing and then changed.
the colors of the shore are out of her touch.
she does not feel it’s familiarity.
she does not even feel.
although, out of her touch,
she keeps visiting the same golden dunes.
just hoping, hoping so dearly it would be just like last time;
that she could collect a jar full of special pretty seashells,
that her lemonade would be a perfect balance of sweet and sour,
and that she would taste the salty air on her tongue,
and nothing would matter.
because the world outside of this beach
would be too big for her to care.
she sits in her chair, staring at the blinking line,
waiting for a thought to pop up in her head so that she can write.
she stands and reaches for the circle hung up on the wall.
she turns on the clock and sits back down.
tick, tock.

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Brielle Benjamin is a teen writer. She loves to read, write, and crochet.