Sun-Drenched Lies in an Old Town Station

I’m sitting on a concrete ledge that's probably older than my last three failed relationships, wearing a yellow bikini top because I wanted to feel like sunshine even if the world feels grey. He called this 'the perfect getaway,' which is code for: 'I can’t handle your career growth so let’s go somewhere where time stands still.'
Look at me—straw hat tilted just right, hand fan poised like a prop in some vintage postcard. I look serene; I feel exhausted by the performative nature of romance. He's probably ten feet away trying to find 'the angle,' convinced that capturing my beauty on camera is equivalent to knowing who I am.
But then he comes over and doesn’t say anything about lighting or composition. Instead, he hands me a cold drink with salt-crusted edges and whispers that we can leave tomorrow if the silence here gets too loud for me. That's the hook—not some grand gesture under fireworks, but someone who notices when my smile is just for show.
I’ll let him believe this trip saved us. In reality, it’s just a nice place to sit and decide whether I want to be healed by another person or if I should finally learn how to heal myself in high-waisted denim shorts.

Editor: Sharp Anna