𝟎𝟐; Sea Eyes That Never Close;

The nights in the coastal village always felt longer than anywhere else. Perhaps it was because the waves never slept, and their restless rhythm seeped into the wooden walls of every house. Minho had grown used to the constant thrum of the ocean pounding against the shore, the salty scent drifting through the cracks of his window. Yet, there was one thing he could never get used to: Newt’s eyes.

Newt had eyes that never seemed to close, even in the dark. Whenever night fell and all the lights went out, he would often be found sitting on the wooden pier, staring at the sea as though something far beyond the horizon were calling him. Minho had watched him like this a few times, from a safe distance, hesitant to interrupt the quiet ritual. Each time, he felt that Newt’s gaze held secrets older than the village itself like a forgotten letter left to soak in the tide. Sea eyes that never closed.

One particularly cool evening, Minho decided to join him. The moon hung low and silver above the restless water, casting long, wavering shadows along the pier. A gentle wind carried the scent of salt and the faint aroma of seaweed. Minho stepped quietly beside Newt, letting the wooden planks creak under his weight.

“Can’t sleep?” Minho asked softly, afraid the words might shatter the fragile silence.

Newt did not turn to look at him. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the dark water met the black sky. “Some people aren’t born to sleep peacefully, Minho. I think I’m one of them,” he said without a hint of bitterness, only quiet acceptance.

Minho said nothing. Instead, he tapped his fingers lightly against the rough wood of the pier, letting the sound mingle with the whispers of the waves. Newt’s voice came again, patient and slow, like the tide rising against the shore.

“When I was younger,” Newt began, “I thought I could leave this place. Run off to some city bright with lights, where the world doesn’t march to the same dull rhythm as this village. But in the end… I stayed.” He smiled faintly, a smile that was at once bitter and resigned. “And staying too long… it feels like even the sea wants to swallow me whole.”

Minho turned to look at him, studying the sharp angles of his face, softened by the moonlight. In that silver glow, Newt’s features seemed to dissolve into shadow, leaving only his bright, restless eyes behind. It struck Minho that Newt’s story was not just a personal one it was the story of the sea itself, a vessel of forgotten dreams and sunken hopes.

“Is that why you write… the leaves of the wind?” Minho asked quietly, his voice almost carried away by the breeze.

Newt nodded. “If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll disappear. And disappearing… is easy. One night, and no one would remember I ever sat here, staring at the waves.”

For a long moment, the two of them sat in silence, listening to the sea’s relentless chant. Minho felt a strange ache in his chest, as though he were staring not at a person, but at a memory shaped by the ocean itself. He wanted to reach out, to tell Newt that he mattered that someone did remember. But the words stuck in his throat, hesitant and fragile.

The moonlight shifted, glimmering across the ripples of the water. Minho imagined that each wave carried pieces of stories lost to the world, fragments of people who had once lived, loved, and vanished like footprints in the sand. Newt seemed to draw strength from the endless motion, as though the sea’s rhythm alone could keep him awake, keep him anchored.

“Do you ever wonder,” Minho whispered after a while, “if we’re just small things to the ocean? That one wave could erase us?”

Newt’s eyes remained on the horizon, unflinching. “I’ve thought about it,” he admitted. “But maybe that’s the point. Maybe we need the sea to remind us we are alive, even if we are small. Maybe we need the night to show us how precious every fleeting moment is.”

Minho felt a chill, but it was not from the wind it was from the weight of understanding. He realized that Newt’s sleepless eyes were not a curse, but a kind of vigilance, a refusal to let life slip by unnoticed. And in that quiet revelation, Minho felt a strange comfort.

The night stretched on, the waves carrying the soft music of eternity. For the first time, Minho didn’t feel the need to speak. He simply sat beside Newt, letting the sea and the stars and the unbroken gaze of those “eyes that never close” tell their own story.

And in that moment, the village, the ocean, and the two of them existed in perfect, fragile balance, suspended between the pull of the tides and the weight of unsaid words.

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