Tears.

We are sitting on the beach.

The roar of the waves dims in my ears. The sound of her voice is cutting through the ocean's rumble as if it were a sawblade in silk.

I can hear it cracking around the edges and there is nothing I can do.

"Why do humans like the sound of the ocean?" I ask. I'm searching for a way to reconcile the last four days with the last four months, and the last four months with the last four years.

"Because it is always different, but the same. Constant, steady. It changes, it grows. It gets quieter and louder. It is never still. But it is always there." Her voice is still dangerously ragged around the edges. Pained. The last sentence was almost broken. I can hear it fighting a battle to remain composed. I can sense her whole self fighting that same battle. She is not talking about the ocean, she is talking about what she wants.

Suddenly I realize I can feel the tears on her cheek. Running down her jawline and across my palm. Her neck is wet and clammy. Cold, even in the heat of a July night. The crash of the Atlantic seems distant. I never meant for this to happen.

I don't say I'm sorry very often. I live a life and project a character that makes apologies rare.

I say I'm sorry.

I realize that I know what she's looking for. What they have all been looking for since time began. What I have never promised and never given. What I have always fought and dodged. Permanence. Stasis. Stability in a time of change.

I like the chaos of my life. I like the good times, and the dynamic way in which I can adjust my moods, dreams, and even morality to fit my environment and needs. It gives me a power to shape my destiny, and a chance to play at being anyone but myself.

But sometimes it means I spend time here, where the sand meets the water, where the waves fight their eternal tug of war with the moon. With tears on my hands and lead in my heart, trying to find a new way to say goodbye.

I never mean to make them cry.

Please remember that when it comes to your turn.