#[ fjd 004 ]

[forrest-dunn]

Forrest stood on the beach, barefoot in the cool sand, the sunset painting the sky in fiery streaks of orange and pink. The waves rolled in steadily, crashing against the shore before retreating back into the vast ocean. He watched them, hypnotized by the rhythm. Each surge felt like a heartbeat — steady, inevitable, alive.

It had been years since he’d let himself be this close to the ocean; years since the water had stolen something from him he could never get back. The grief had become a constant companion, silent but always there, like a shadow he couldn’t escape. Recently, though, it had risen to the surface, raw and unrelenting. The pain, the guilt… it had started bleeding into everything. The women, the drinking, the reckless choices. A desperate attempt to bury something that refused to stay buried.

A month ago, Henley had found him sitting on his apartment floor, staring at nothing. She didn’t ask questions or offer empty words of comfort. She just told him to pack a bag. They disappeared into the mountains for a while, hiking trails that stretched for miles, far from the noise of the city and the weight of his own head. It helped, but it didn’t fix anything. Henley knew it. Forrest knew it.

When he dropped her back home, the answer became clear. He had to face it.

That night, he drove until the road disappeared into the horizon. Myrtle Beach wasn’t the closest option, but something about the name felt right. The long drive gave him time to think, or try not to think. He pulled into a beachside motel as the sun was rising and booked a room with a balcony overlooking the ocean.

The first day, he couldn’t even step onto the sand. The sound of the waves crashing made his chest tighten, and the smell of salt in the air felt suffocating, but he didn’t leave. He kept the balcony door open, let the sounds of the ocean fill the room, even when it brought tears he couldn’t stop.

By the second day, the crying had turned to something else. He sat on the balcony, gripping the armrests of the cheap plastic chair, whispering to no one. “I’m sorry.”

He said it over and over again. To Carson. To himself. To the 16-year-old boy who had tried so hard to fight the current, who had screamed for help until his voice broke, who had watched helplessly as his little brother was swallowed by the ocean.

On the third day, he stepped onto the sand.

Now, standing here at sunset, Forrest felt like the water was staring back at him, as if it were alive, as if it remembered everything.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said quietly, his voice lost in the crash of the waves. But, he stayed. 

The tide rolled closer, licking at Forrest’s feet. The cold sting startled him, but he didn’t move. He closed his eyes, letting the salt air burn in his lungs, letting the sounds pull him under. He thought about Carson’s laugh, his stubbornness, the way he used to dive headfirst into the waves without fear. He thought about Henley on the beach that day, building a sandcastle, unaware of the tragedy about to unfold in front of her. He thought about how he’d tried, how hard he’d tried, and how it still hadn’t been enough.

The tears came again, slow and quiet this time. He let them fall.

“I wish I could go back,” he whispered. “I’d trade anything. Everything.”

The ocean didn’t answer. It just kept moving, pulling away, coming back.

Forrest wiped his face with the back of his hand and looked out at the horizon. He didn’t know if he could forgive himself, but standing here, he felt something new. Not peace, exactly, but maybe the start of it.

For the first time in years, he didn’t turn away from the waves.