The Altar of Beautiful Lies

I stand here in this white shroud, looking like a saint who’s never tasted sin. The wind is trying to carry my veil into the Atlantic—perhaps as an act of mercy from fate itself.
He told me he wanted 'something real,' which is urbanite code for 'I'm tired of dating apps and want someone to hold while I have an existential crisis.' So, we flew across continents to a church on the edge of nowhere. It’s romantic in that way only people who can afford business class find romance: through isolation.
But beneath this layers of tulle and lace, my skin is humming with a hunger he hasn't yet named. I hold these wildflowers not because they are pretty, but because their scent masks the smell of salt air and desperation. He thinks we are healing each other; in reality, we are just two broken clocks synchronizing our ticks.
I look back at him—his eyes full of a soft, naive warmth that makes me want to tear his shirt open with my teeth right here on this cliffside. I’ll let him believe he has saved me from the city's cold grip, all while I plot how we will spend our first night in silence: skin against skin, where no one needs words because breathing is enough.
The church looks peaceful. It should be terrified of what happens when we finally leave it.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach