This summer, the world finally slowed down for me.

My wife and I pursued sunrises and let the waves uncover our secrets. We played in the sand like children who had forgotten the burdens of adulthood, and the ocean's sound accomplished what sleep and silence never could—it rejuvenated me.

We brought along water and simple sandwiches, and when the sun became too intense, we shared cold watermelon with our hands, juice trickling down our wrists as we laughed at nothing in particular.

Some days, we discussed everything—the dreams we still hold onto, the life we're continuing to build together. Other days, we let the ocean speak for us.

I found myself gazing at her more than the horizon. Her smile. Her warmth. The way sunlight embraced her as if it had been waiting for her. Those moments felt like home.

This summer offered me more than rest. It gave me us—unhurried, undisturbed, learning how to pause the world just long enough to remember what truly matters.