Getting Over Him

Waves

A/N: I just spaced the paragraphs, because I forgot to the other day😅.
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Pat's P.O.V:
The car engine hums quietly as I park in front of the house. It should have felt like a moment of triumph, like stepping into a dream finally realized. Instead, all I can hear are the waves in the distance, their relentless crashing against the jagged rocks. The sound is thunderous, almost angry, a stark contrast to the serene escape I imagined when I bought this place.

I step out of the car, and the salty air immediately engulfs me. The wind is sharp, tugging at my clothes and stinging my cheeks as I take in the scene before me. The house stands on a cliff overlooking the ocean, its silhouette both striking and intimidating against the dimming sky. It's beautiful, undeniably so, but the ocean's turbulence makes it feel foreboding tonight.

When I envisioned bringing Pran here, everything felt perfect in my mind. I imagined us walking hand in hand along the shore, the waves gentle and inviting, the horizon stretching endlessly before us. I wanted this to be a place where we could breathe, far away from the chaos of home and the ever-prying eyes of our families. This was supposed to be our sanctuary, our place to finally be ourselves without fear of judgment or interference.

But standing here now, with the ocean roaring its disapproval, I can't shake the feeling that I've made a mistake.

I glance over at Pran as he steps out of the car. His expression is unreadable, a mixture of exhaustion and unease. He wraps his coat tighter around himself, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the waves crash violently against the rocks. The sound is relentless, each crash louder than the last, as if the sea itself is protesting our presence.

"I didn't think it would be like this," I say, my voice barely audible over the roar of the ocean.
Pran turns to me, his eyes searching mine. "It's not what I expected either," he admits, his tone measured but not unkind.

I feel a pang of guilt. I wanted this to be perfect for him—for us. I wanted him to step out of the car and feel a sense of peace wash over him, to see the ocean and know that we were finally free, at least for a little while. But instead, the turbulent waves seem to mirror the storm I feel brewing inside me.

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice cracking slightly. "I wanted this to be... different. Peaceful."
Pran shakes his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Pat, you don't have to apologize. We're here, and that's what matters."
His words are kind, but they don't erase the knot of unease tightening in my chest. I can't help but feel like I've let him down. This was supposed to be our fresh start, our escape from the pressures and expectations of everyone back home. But how can we find peace in a place where the very elements seem to be at war?

We gather our bags from the car and make our way to the house. The wind howls around us, and the crashing waves provide an almost deafening soundtrack to our arrival. The front door creaks as I push it open, revealing the interior I spent months imagining. The furniture is simple but comfortable, the walls painted in calming shades of blue and white. It's everything I thought we needed—a place to retreat, to heal, to just be.
Yet, as I set our bags down and look out the large window overlooking the ocean, the violent waves make it impossible to feel at ease. The glass panes rattle slightly with each gust of wind, and the sound of the crashing surf feels more like a threat than a lullaby.

Pran walks up beside me, his eyes fixed on the tumultuous sea. "The view is incredible," he says, his voice soft.

I nod, though I can't bring myself to agree fully. "I wanted it to be calm," I admit. "I wanted us to feel safe here."

He turns to me, his expression thoughtful. "Safety isn't about the waves or the weather, Pat. It's about being with you."

His words should comfort me, and in a way, they do. But I can't ignore the feeling in my gut, the sense that the ocean's fury is some sort of omen. I don't believe in signs or superstitions, but the violent sea feels like a reflection of the turmoil we left behind—or worse, a prelude to what's ahead.
"I just wanted our first night here to be perfect," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Pran places a hand on my arm, grounding me. "It doesn't have to be perfect," he says. "It just has to be ours."

I look at him, at the warmth in his eyes and the quiet strength in his presence. Maybe he's right. Maybe perfection isn't what we need. Maybe what matters is that we're here, together, far from the expectations and disappointments of home.

Still, as night falls and the waves continue their relentless assault on the shore, I can't shake the feeling that the ocean is trying to tell us something. I don't want to believe in bad omens, but the violent sea feels too symbolic to ignore.
Later, as we settle into the house and prepare for the night, I find myself standing by the window again, staring out at the dark, churning water. Pran joins me, his presence a quiet reassurance.
"We'll make this work," he says, his voice steady. "No matter what."

I nod, leaning into him as we watch the waves crash against the rocks. The ocean may be turbulent, but for now, we have each other. And maybe that's enough