I didn’t come to the beach to fall in love. I came because I was bored, burnt out, and vaguely dramatic about turning thirty. I’d quit my job three days earlier by replying “No” to an e-mail that said “Please confirm availability for Q3 onboarding.” I packed a backpack, found a cheap rental by the sea, and brought the three things I trust: my camera, my skateboard and my grandmother’s dented thermos.

The first time I saw her, she looked like she belonged to the sand. Hair undone, knees sand-dusted, strawberries in a plastic container on her lap like she was running a fruit stand for sea spirits. She had the kind of face people write songs about and later regret. I asked her where the beach was, fully aware we were standing on it. 

She pointed behind her and said, “Just past the seaweed. If you reach your childhood memories, you’ve gone too far.” Like that was a normal answer.

I fell a little right there.

“That’s oddly poetic.”

“I moonlight as a metaphor,” she said. “Want a strawberry?”

I hesitated. You hear things, you know? About strangers and fruit and regret. She looked like someone who’d poison you with something beautiful and apologise after. I accepted anyway. It tasted like summer’s first secret.

“I’m Sunwoo,” I said, chewing.

“Kira,” she replied.

Just like that. A name exchange, a strawberry, and some salt in the air. I was hooked.

I didn’t leave right away. I told myself I needed to get my bearings. But I lingered because something in her felt familiar. Like a missed connection I hadn’t missed yet.

I rented the house next to hers. Not on purpose. I swear. Okay, maybe a little on purpose.

She played jazz at odd hours and read books upside down while lying on her stomach in the sand. Like, literally. Claimed it helped her “see patterns”. I believed her. She was burnt edges and soft centres. A girl who looked like she once believed in something and was still deciding whether to regret it.  

Next day, I asked if she wanted to skateboard with me. She said she bruised easily. I said I fell often. We made a great pair.

And then we skated – badly – down a deserted path while seagulls screamed their judgement and the wind tried to steal her hair. We wiped out twice. She got a scrape on her elbow. I got a sunburn that made my ears peel like tragic fruit.

She laughed. Loud. Unpretty. Absolutely perfect.

I took a photo.

“You’re laughing with your whole face,” I told her.

She snorted. “Is that a compliment?”

I said, “It’s a miracle.”

And it was.

That night, we sat on our respective front steps like weird porch pen pals and started playing One Truth, One Lie. I told her about the bird-truther I dated and how I could outcook my mother. She guessed wrong, of course. The lie was about my mom – a wizard with a frying pan.

She claimed she hated strawberries. After feeding me five of them the day we met. She said it was a test I passed. I didn’t tell her how badly I wanted to.

Kira wasn’t the kind of girl you fell in love with gradually. You either jumped, or you didn’t deserve her. I jumped. Not out loud. Not with declarations or drama. But in the quiet ways: memorising the way she wrinkled her nose when she thought, or how she whispered compliments to the sea. I should’ve been afraid. But I wasn’t. Because summer makes you reckless. And this girl made reckless feel like a good idea.

At night, we sat on our porches – her with tea, me with terrible instant coffee. We made lists of useless truths. Words that tasted like memories. Feelings that sounded like weather. We talked about almosts and what-ifs. People we used to be. How she once lost a shoe at a funeral. How I used to want to chase storms. Not metaphorical ones. Real ones, with thunder and danger signals. How my ex said I “felt like a flicker, not a flame”.

Sometimes I’d trace things on her back — not words, but shapes I wished had names. She never asked. That was her gift: not asking, but knowing.

She made me believe in summer as something other than a time of sweat and poor decisions. Which is why I didn’t tell her I was leaving until Friday night as we sat behind the shuttered surf shop, knees brushing. The building smelled of driftwood and sunscreen ghosts. The ocean stretched in front of us, humming in blue.

“I’m leaving Sunday,” I said, like I was reporting the weather. “This was just a pause. I’m moving to Tokyo next week.”

Her face didn’t fall. That’s what got me. She didn’t cry. Or ask me to stay. She just nodded, like I’d said I was going to the store to buy milk. But I saw the way her fingers curled into her palm. Like she was holding something in.

I almost kissed her then. The kind of almost that hums in your bones. I turned to her, and she turned to me. For a second, the world narrowed to strawberry-tinted lips and freckles on her cheeks that I hadn’t yet memorised, yet wanted to. But she blinked and looked out at the ocean again, and the moment slipped sideways – gently, like sand through fingers.

I didn’t mind. Not then. We had time, I told myself.  

Instead, we made plans for our last day together.

She took me to a cove she found during “an attempt to be athletic.” It was quiet. Gentle. The air smelled like childhood and closure.

She brought strawberries. I brought sea salt in a jar I’d stolen from a ramen place back home. She raised an eyebrow when I dipped one in salt.

“Trust me,” I said.

She did. Always.

It was perfect: the shock of salt, the rush of sweet. We ate them all, side by side, quietly. No jokes. No games. Just soft fruit and sharp truths.

I asked if I could take a photo. She nodded.

I didn’t pose her. I just let the lens catch her where she was – sunlight on her shoulder, a bit of sand stuck to her ankle, wind in her hair. Like a memory being made.

“Click,” I whispered.

She smiled.

“What would you do if we met again next summer?” I asked.

“Bring more strawberries.”

“Salt?”

“Always.”

I swear, I almost stayed.

But I left at sunrise, quietly. Because goodbyes always sound too loud. I taped a note to her porch. Don’t stop laughing with your whole face. Underneath, the photo. Not because I wanted her to remember me. Because I didn’t want her to think I’d forget.

I didn’t cry. But I haven’t laughed the same since.

It’s been two years. Tokyo’s bright and sharp, and full of movement. I got a job that feels like a life instead of a ladder. I bought a new thermos. But I still use the old one when I feel lost. I talk less. Think more. I photograph things. Faces. Empty chairs. Small joys. But nothing lands the way she did. Sometimes I remember how she said my name like it tasted good. I still keep that photo by my bed. I still look at every strawberry like it’s about to start something I can’t stop.

I haven’t been back to that beach. Not because I don’t want to. But because I’m afraid she won’t be there. Or worse – she will, and someone else will be the one she’s offering strawberries to.

But maybe next summer. Maybe I’ll go. Maybe I’ll bring a new jar of salt. Just in case.

Some loves are bruises that fade over time. Some are tattoos. She was both. Strawberries. Salt. And a laugh that still echoes in the hollow parts of me.