It Will Get Better by Nikita Eismont

 It will get better.

The dark waves beneath your feet try really hard to reach you. Every time they get slightly closer and every time you involuntarily flinch. The pier responds with rhythmic creaking to your breathing. You see it in the way they move — they would, and they will grab your legs and carry you to the abyss. The abyss — you’ve been closely eyeing it. Did you discover how deep it goes? The wind whispers in the trees behind. It knows you’ll have to leave through the grove should you decline the abyss’s embrace. Both sides tower over you: you are in a purgatory, trapped between two hells. This last wave touched your slippers. You must get up.

The next day you return. Somehow, it’s much quieter during the day. You left your slippers near the base of the wooden pier. A gentle wave offers to lift your left sole. The sun has nearly completely dried the sand on your right foot, which you resolved to rest on the pier. A friendly breeze passes through. The grove and the river seem to have conspired to lull you to sleep, gently caressing the clearing and you, with it. The wind plays peekaboo with a frog congregation: their satisfied croaks echo from behind the reeds. As you close your eyes, the sun warms your eyelids with a kiss. A bookmark sits on the first pages of the book you intended to read. The other breeze trots by. “It’s okay,” it remarks. It does get better.