**Love Across the Ocean: He’s in London, I’m in Manchester**
This past summer promised nothing extraordinary—just the usual: a bit of sunshine, the sound of waves, laughter with my girlfriends, evening strolls, and that lingering melancholy not even the sea could chase away. I’d gone to Brighton for a break, not expecting miracles. Everything was predictable, almost dull. On the first day, as always, I slathered myself in thick sunscreen—my pale skin burns instantly, and I had no interest in resembling a lobster. I dreamed of an even tan, peace, and maybe a brief holiday fling… if I was lucky.
But instead of romance, I got a handful of sand. Some bloke walked past and, as if on purpose, flicked sand right onto my back. I yelped and was about to make a scene when I looked up and met his gaze. He stood there, shrugging slightly, and smiled—wide, genuine. Then, softly, he said, “Sorry, wasn’t intentional.” Something in his voice, in that simplicity, melted the ice inside me.
A few days later, the sea turned rough, waves crashing so fiercely only the reckless stayed on the beach. I’m no coward—I’ve swum well since childhood. But even I struggled to keep my balance. At one point, a surge knocked me, and just as panic set in, a strong hand gripped my wrist—him. That same bloke with the smile. We laughed, staggering like kids battered by the waves. Then, in a blink, he vanished. Just like that. I scanned the shore, hoping to spot him again.
And I did.
One morning, nursing a pounding headache, I dragged myself to the beach. My mates insisted I not waste the day indoors, so I popped a pill and trudged along. I hid under an umbrella, burying my face in a towel, just waiting for the pain to pass. But nearby, loud shouts broke the silence—“Bloody hell!”, “Pass!”, “Ace!”—someone was playing cards, annoyingly boisterous. I lifted my head… and locked eyes with him again. He was just three umbrellas away. My heart clenched. I bolted—literally. Just walked off. He unnerved me too much.
But that evening, at the pub, it all began. The bartender slid me a cocktail—“from the bloke in the corner.” Then came a slow dance. And that was it. His hands, his movements… I dissolved into him. No words, just breath, touch, warmth. He stole me from reality. That’s how it started—the thing that changed me forever.
The rest of the holiday, we were inseparable. Mornings were for coffee, afternoons for walks, evenings for sunsets and long talks. I giggled like a schoolgirl and cried from happiness that hit too suddenly. His name was James. He lived in London, originally from Birmingham but moved years ago for work. Only returned in summers. Me? Just a girl from a small town in Yorkshire. Our worlds couldn’t be more different. And yet… we fell in love.
When it was time to leave, he insisted on driving me home. He held my hand in silence the whole way. At my doorstep, he asked, “I’ve got two weeks left. Can I stay here, near you?” I just nodded.
He booked a room at a local inn. I told my parents. Dad smirked, “You’re floating on air—what’s the magic?” Mum… she sulked. “Honestly, love, acting like a stranger. The lad’s at an inn when we’ve got space?” She made me call James and invite him for dinner.
He arrived with flowers—for me and Mum. Whisky for Dad. And that wide, honest smile. We talked, laughed, relaxed. They liked him. Those two weeks flew by like a dream. Then—the airport. Tears. Promises. Silence.
Now, we live an ocean apart.
We talk every day. Video calls, letters, encouragement. But it’s not the same as his scent, the warmth of his hands, the spark in his eyes when he looks at me. Without him, the room’s cold, even with the heating on. He jokes, “Wait. I’ll come back, take you, and never let go.” My voice trembles when I reply, “Come soon. I love you.”
Sometimes, I wake at night, reach out—and find the bed empty. Tears come uninvited. But I wait. Because I know: love across the ocean isn’t a myth. It’s real. Just… impossible. For now.
