At the Bottom of the Bay

The waves were gone, the darkness gone. Seagulls spun over head, backlit by glowing grey clouds, crying their discordant cries. Sofia breathed, and the air flowed in effortlessly, like it was meant to be there, like it hadn't been in so long, like it was coming home.
She looked over her shoulder at Kelsey, who watched her with wide eyes. There were other eyes on her, on them, she was sure of it. People in windows and doorways and the far side of the street. The world watched her break down, and then the world turned away.
Except Kelsey fucking McQuarrie, with her baby-blue eyes and her frizzy dishwater curls, her stupid windbreaker rustling with her every movement. They stared at each other across the ocean and a foot of space. Sofia could have choked her unconscious, could have kissed her. The parts of her that touched Kelsey (her hip pressed to Kelsey's thigh, her shoulder blade beneath Kelsey's palm) were the only parts of her that felt real.