Salt Water and Sincere Lies

I paid for this flight with my own bonus, not some 'grand gesture' from a man who thinks flowers are an apology. The Maldives is beautiful—sterilely so—like a high-end hotel lobby that stretches across the ocean.
He’s probably back in London right now, drafting another email about synergy while imagining me here as his trophy on pause. But look at me: skin salted by the sea, eyes clear for the first time since 2019. I didn't come here to be healed; healing is a marketing term sold by wellness retreats and overpriced crystals.
I came here to feel my own weight in the sand without someone telling me how graceful I look while doing it. When he calls tonight, his voice will sound like home—which is exactly why I’ll let it go to voicemail for three hours first. Let him wonder if I've forgotten him or found something better.
The water is warm, my bikini fits perfectly, and the silence between waves is more romantic than any dinner he ever planned in a place with too many napkins on the table. I am not waiting for someone to save me from city life; I’m just taking myself out for lunch.

Editor: Sharp Anna