Riptide

1: Motion Sickness

"I hate you for what you did
And I miss you like a little kid."

~

Winter's brows furrowed in frustration as she meticulously combed through the room. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast a warm hue on the walls, creating a cozy ambiance that starkly contrasted with her growing unease. Her favorite sweater, snug and well-worn seemed to have vanished without a trace.

Determined not to give up, Winter extended her search to the adjacent spaces. The side table, she peeked under the bed, half-expecting it to have taken refuge in some hidden crevice, but the floor remained bare.

The ottoman at the foot of the bed beckoned her next, its faux leather surface cold to the touch. Winter's fingers traced the seams, hoping for a familiar texture beneath her touch. Disappointment crept in as the reality sank in—the sweater was not there either.

They were both in a hurry to undress earlier, so who knows where it ended up?

"What's wrong?" Winter's gaze shifted from the room's disarray to the woman beside her.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

The soft light in the room cast a warm glow on the tousled sheets and the woman lying in the bed. Winter's fingers traced a delicate path, half-turning to brush the woman's dark black hair away from her closed eyes.

The woman stirred slightly as Winter's touch prompted a fluttering of eyelashes. Even in the serene vulnerability of sleep, she exuded a captivating beauty that never failed to captivate Winter. It was a bittersweet realization since they'd be back to trash-talking each other tomorrow morning at the surfing competition.

"Tell me what's bothering you..."

"It's just my sweater. I was getting up to take a shower, and I couldn't find it."

The girl whispered, her hand gently resting on Winter's leg, "It's just your Kwangya University sweater. What's the big deal? Just buy another one."

Winter closed her eyes in frustration, took a deep breath, resisted the urge to respond, and let the moment pass. She was convinced that whatever words she let slip would make her sound like a lunatic. After all, the other woman had a point—a valid one. It was an old sweater with faded colors and frayed edges that bore witness to the passage of two long years. In the grand scheme of things, it was just a piece of clothing that had seen better days. So why was Winter allowing it to unravel her composure?

It wasn't about the shirt itself, but the person it was associated with. The irony lay in the fact that it was a gift from someone she was actively trying to erase from her memories. A bitter smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she contemplated the absurdity of the situation.

Strangely, amid the clutter of emotions, this was the singular item she found herself unable to let go of. She wasn't sure if it meant she was a sentimental mess or just a sucker for questionable fashion.

"Come back here," the woman, still lounging on her bed, softly whispered.

"I'm going out," Winter responded with a flat tone, leaving the protesting girl, who was too sleepy to get up.

The hotel door closed behind Winter with a muted click, and she stepped into the brisk night air. The rhythmic melody of crashing waves accompanied her as she distanced herself from the hotel. They were in Taito Beach, the night before the surfing competition. The transition from the muffled ambiance of the room to the vast symphony of the sea acted as a catalyst, unlocking a floodgate of memories that surged within her.