The High Cost of Sunset Solitude

I’m standing on this rotting pier, wearing a swimsuit that costs more than my first month's rent in the city. The sunset is doing its best to be romantic—painting the sky in shades of bruised peach and gold—but let’s be honest: nature just wants us to feel small before we return to our spreadsheets.
He told me this trip would 'heal' me from my corporate burnout, as if a week at an overpriced resort could scrub away three years of 80-hour workweeks. He thinks he is the hero of this story—the man who rescued me from the concrete jungle with champagne and white sand.
But while he’s inside taking photos for his LinkedIn profile to prove 'work-life balance,' I am out here, feeling the salt air tighten my skin and the cold wood bite into my soles. My body is a temple that hasn't been visited in years; every curve of this pink fabric feels like an invitation he isn't yet smart enough to accept.
I look back at him not with love, but with a calculated hunger. I don’t want his poetry or his promises of forever. I just want the heat of his breath against my neck while we forget that tomorrow morning is Monday. Romance is merely a well-marketed lie—but God, isn't it delicious when you play along?

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach