We used to daydream of life together in a tiny glass house stretching out from the shore. The future seemed less threatening that way. We always knew that when we'd turn twenty-three, we'd live in our iridescent sanctuary by the sea. We'd awake each morning to the tired yellow sun reflecting off white and blue crested waves. By then we'd learn that making our walls translucent let in more good than bad; we'd no longer fear being seen. But we never stopped to worry, and maybe we should have; there are many storms to be had by the sea.

But still I hope you will find someone with whom to share crystalline walls. Our glass never shattered—it dissolved in salt and sand until all that remained was a memory of times we never shared.

We never promised each other forever.