[Fiction] The Queen of Whales by Arben Alovic

The Queen of Whales

by Arben Alovic

He met her by the ocean, where mornings smelled like salt and low tide, and the herons called like ghosts over the gray horizon.

She stood barefoot on the sand, sketchbook in one hand, coffee in the other, her arm a map of black and white whales. They swam up her arm, across her wrist, and disappeared beneath her sleeve, over old scars. Faded lines, softened by ink and time.

“They cover what I used to be,” she said once, when she caught him staring. “Or maybe they remind me what I could still become.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to say more. To push the conversation to a place he didn’t belong.

He was a poet, or at least used to be. Now, he wrote half thoughts in a weathered notebook, poems that began like promises and ended in silence. Everything he wrote seemed to always be hollow in meaning and foreign even to him.

But, each morning, he came to the docks to write, and each morning, she was already there, chasing the horizon.

She called herself a whale dreamer. Said she’d been following migration patterns up and down the coast, hoping to see them breach the surface, just once, close enough to feel the water splash against her skin.

“Someday,” she said, “I’ll swim with them.”

He smiled at that. Though he’d learned that someday was a word heavy with regret.

Sometimes, she’d peek over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of his writing. He’d close the notebook quickly, pretending not to notice her grin. That playful, knowing grin that told him she understood more than she let on.

So he watched her instead. From a distance.

How she walked barefoot through the morning tide, painting flowers on driftwood, pressing petals into her sketchbook. How the wind tangled her hair, and the ocean seemed to bend closer just to listen to her hum.

And little by little, she made him remember how to breathe. How to notice the small things: sea glass in the sand, the warmth of sunlight on his face, the echo of laughter carried by the wind. She reminded him of a life not spent replaying what was lost.

They would lose day after day with one another, and yet, he couldn’t cross the distance between them. He was still tethered to the past, to promises that he couldn’t hope to keep.

Then, one morning, the whales came.

The sea seemed to shine in hues of jade and sapphire as the gentle dark giants moved below, as the waves rose and fell in the distance. She saw them first, her eyes wide with disbelief. Without thinking, she ran into the water, wading deeper and deeper until she dove forward, arms outstretched toward the horizon.

“Wait!” he called, dropping his notebook, sprinting after her. The cold slammed into him like a wall, stealing the air from his lungs before he could scream. He dove in as he saw her head vanish beneath a swell. Panic clawed at his throat. He pushed forward, even as the frigid waters swallowed him, turning his heartbeat into thunder beneath the waves.

When he reached her, she was sinking. Limbs moving slow, almost peaceful. He dragged her to shore, coughing, shivering, his hands shaking as he pressed his forehead against hers.

“What were you thinking?” he gasped. “You can’t even swim.”

Her lips trembled. “I wasn’t afraid.”

“You could’ve drowned.”

“I was afraid of the water my whole life,” she whispered. “But I didn’t want to be afraid anymore. If I let them pass without trying, I’d lose more than I already have. I’m tired of being afraid and letting life slip through my hands. I’d rather disappear than be too afraid to move any longer.”

He didn’t understand at first, until he looked at her shivering with a fierceness in her eye.

Even in fear, she had leaped. But he, who’d spent years standing still, had only ever watched.

He drove her back to his home that night, gave her tea, wrapped her in blankets, and watched her fall asleep on his couch: her hair still damp, her hand curled near his open notebook.

When he woke, she was reading from it, fingers tracing each word.

“You write like someone who’s waiting,” she said softly.

He smiled. “Maybe I am.”

They spent the rest of the night talking about dreams, about what kept them here, about the ghosts they both carried. She told him about Costa Rica, about the beaches she once called home, and the life she left behind chasing something she couldn’t name. He told her about Japan, about Kamakura’s shores, and the memories waiting there for him to make peace with.

A few weeks later, their paths split.

The day they left, the airport hummed with soft chaos: boarding calls, rolling suitcases, tearful goodbyes.

He held her close before she left, breathing in the faint scent of salt and paint.

“Maybe we’ll meet again,” she said, smiling that same teasing smile.

“Maybe,” he replied. “When the whales return.”

He watched her fade through the checkpoint, occasionally turning to wave to him before she was fully out of sight, and for a moment, every part of him wished to run after her. To call her name. To tell her that she’d become the reason he was no longer afraid of tomorrow.

But he didn’t.

He turned toward his own gate, the weight of his old notebook in his hand, the faint echo of her laughter reminding him to move forward.

As the intercom called his flight, he whispered under his breath, “Till next time.”

Bio: Arben Alovic is a writer — kind of.

Sometimes it’s poetry. Sometimes it’s short stories. Sometimes it’s just a mess of words.

Sometimes they’re memories, and other times they’re words he had hoped to say — creating worlds of what-ifs and possibilities.

Thank you for reading, and until next time, may life treat you well and fate be gentle. ~