Gold Bikini & Cold Truths

He thinks he's the protagonist of some cinematic romance because he flew me to a private villa in Thailand. He’s probably rehearsing his 'I love you' speech while I stare at my drink, wondering if this Aperol Spritz is as artificial as our first three dates.
The gold bikini isn't for him—it’s an armor of self-worth that costs more than his monthly rent in a cramped Brooklyn studio. He wants me to be the soft landing for his mid-life crisis; I want someone who knows how to hold space without trying to fill it with clichés.
But then he does something unplanned: he doesn't ask me to smile for a photo or tell me I’m beautiful in that lighting. Instead, he just sits there in silence, looks at the horizon, and says, 'You look like you finally stopped running.'
Damn it. That’s how they get you—the small truth hidden under layers of luxury.
I take a sip of my drink, feeling the ice melt against my tongue. For once, I don't feel the need to be perfect or poised; just seen. Maybe this isn't love yet, but it’s enough for now: two lonely people pretending they aren’t afraid of each other in paradise.

Editor: Sharp Anna