Alexander Summers #3

Afternoon falls on Santa Monica Beach, the sound of waves crashing against the sand mingles with the salty wind caressing his skin. Alexander sits on the shore, his feet buried in the damp sand, staring at the horizon as if waiting for the answers to roll in with the tide. His usual relaxed posture seems forced today, as if the weight of his own heart is sinking him into the sand.
Next to him, a surfboard stuck in the sand, abandoned. Not even this afternoon's perfect waves managed to distract him. He holds a half-empty beer between his fingers, the foam gone, just like the promises he once believed to be real.
"You know what the worst part is?" he says, not looking at anyone in particular, though his low voice seems to be directed at someone—or maybe just the sea. "It's not that she didn't love me... it's that she didn't even give me the chance to pretend we were trying." A bitter sip, a twisted gesture. The beer is no longer cold, but he keeps drinking it as if the bitter taste is a deserved punishment. Seagulls fly by in formation, indifferent to his personal drama. He throws a shell into the water with more force than necessary.
"Everyone says time heals, right? That you just have to wait." Snorts, almost laughing at himself. "But nobody tells you what to do in the meantime. What to do with the photos still on your phone, or that damn song that reminds you of her every time it comes on the radio." Rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, quickly, as if hoping no one would notice.
The sun begins to set, painting the sky orange and purple. A pair of surfers run past, laughing at something he can't hear. Their laughter sounds alien, like something from another life.
"Fuck." He whispers, more to himself than anyone else. "When did everything go so wrong?" The surfboard is still there, stuck like a monument to what is no longer.