We are at the beach, under a blanket, watching the sunset. He brought us a canteen of something mixed with tequila. A father and daughter bob offshore in an inflatable dinghy.

“Tomorrow morning, an early flight. I’ll be back next Monday.”

I reach over to hug him. He puts his hand on the back of my head and strokes my hair, then places his cheek on the smoothed spot.

“I’m going to miss you,” I confess. It’s the truth. My heart. Splayed open.

He rubs my hair again and kisses the top of my head. But says nothing.

A tender ache builds within me.

This is the risk of love. To be vulnerable, to expose the tender and soft underside of my heart. I love fully and openly, and I work to feel this ache and hold it with the same honour as all of my other feelings.

This ache, what is the wisdom of this ache?

It shows me that I care.

I sit in the dark in my empty apartment. The ache builds.

The sweetness of this tender ache.

I hold it in the palm of my hand like a delicate flower. I press it to my nose, breathe it in. I gently touch the petals with my fingers. I grasp the stem and twirl it carefully around.

This ache? This ache is beautiful.