I’m Not Your Tropical Fantasy

Look at me. I've got the whole 'island girl' aesthetic down to a science—flowers strategically placed where they’re not supposed to be, skin glowing under an artificial sun that probably costs more than my rent in Shinjuku.
He calls this romance. He talks about soulmates and destiny while he sets up his tripod at precisely forty-five degrees. I'm sorry, but since when does true love require a subscription to Adobe Lightroom?
Yet, as the sand grits against my back, I find myself thinking of our flat in the city—the one where we’re both too tired for sex and only talk through shared calendars. There is something about this silence that actually heals me, not because he's here filming it, but because I’ve finally stopped pretending to be a part of his curated life.
He thinks he’s capturing my essence; in reality, I am just waiting for the timer to go off so I can put on my oversized t-shirt and order a pizza. But maybe that's where our real romance lies: not in these pink petals or choreographed gazes, but in two people who have seen each other at their worst and still choose to book an expensive flight to do absolutely nothing together.

Editor: Sharp Anna