Journal Entry – November 8, 2024
Location: Mikonos – Old Port Seawall
Writer: Enrique Demetriou
Time: 1:33 a.m.
I don't sleep much these days.
Not in the way I used to. Not since that night on the fishing boat—when I saw her again.
If she was ever real.
If I didn't imagine the whole thing in some long, salt-drenched dream.
But I keep coming back to this spot.
The same seawall where she first walked toward me barefoot and strange. Where she said things no tourist, no drunk, no human would say. Where she touched the air between us like it had meaning.
Where she broke the rules just to understand something… soft.
Tonight the water's calm. No tourists. No music. Just the hum of sodium street lamps and the occasional skitter of cats through alleyways.
I sit with my legs dangling over the stone edge, same as before. Same position, same hope.
I try not to hope too much.
Because it's ridiculous, right?
There's no such thing as her.
No one who comes from the deep with bioluminescent skin and kelp-dark hair and eyes that look straight through the noise of the world.
No one who would follow me across bays, into harbors, and back into memory.
And yet—
I can't stop thinking about her hand.
Raised toward me.
Not to wave, not to ask—but to connect.
The way you'd reach out to your reflection and hope it reaches back.
It's almost two now.
The tide is higher than usual. Gentle lapping, like breathing. The water's speaking—but in a language I still don't know. I close my eyes, lean forward slightly.
And I swear—
For a moment…
There's a shimmer.
Not light. Not shape. Not something I can point to. Just that feeling again. That drop in pressure.
The way the air goes still. Like the sea is watching me.
Or maybe she is.
I don't see her. But I don't need to.
She's here in the way the water curls just once against the stone.
In the sudden hush of the wind.
In the way my chest tightens—not with fear, but with recognition.
I whisper:
"I'm here."
I don't know what I expect. A voice? A hand again? The impossible glow?
None of it comes.
Only the sea.
And yet… I feel less alone.
I leave a gift this time. Just in case.
A simple thing: a seashell, bleached white by sun and time. I place it on the stone beside me, where the spray can touch it.
Something to say: I remember you too.
And I wait.
Not for proof. Not for miracles.
Just for her.
Whenever she's ready.