The High Cost of Scenic Views

I spent six figures on a loft in the city just to realize I was paying for the privilege of hearing my neighbor's existential crisis through thin walls. So, I took an unplanned flight and hiked until my boots were ruined and my phone signal died—finally free from 'urgent' emails sent at 3 AM by people who’ve forgotten what sleep looks like.
Standing here under this absurdly oversized moon with a yellow umbrella that does absolutely nothing against the wind is peak romantic cliché. I can almost hear some poet talking about destiny and soulmates while staring at my red dress. Please, spare me.
But then he shows up—the guy from three rows back on the flight who didn't try to network or 'synergize.' He just handed me a thermos of coffee that actually tastes like beans instead of burnt rubber and said, 'You look like you’re waiting for something that isn't coming.'
He doesn't offer me his hand to climb; he offers me a silence so comfortable it feels subversive. In the city, romance is an algorithm—swiping right on filtered lies until someone fits your criteria. But here, with our breath misting in the mountain air and this giant golden orb mocking us from above, I feel something dangerously close to warmth.
He leans in just enough for me to smell cedarwood and old books, not quite touching but making every inch of space between us electric. It’s a slow burn—the kind that doesn't need an anniversary dinner or an Instagram post to be real. He isn't my 'missing half'; I was never missing anything. But damn if he makes being whole feel like enough.

Editor: Sharp Anna