That word—desperate—cuts deep. It lands heavily, making my stomach churn. I don’t want to think of myself as desperate. I don’t want to believe that’s what this was. But the truth clings to me, undeniable. I let myself get swept up in the whirlwind of Timmy because I wanted to be swept up. I wanted the adventure, the fantasy, the dopamine hit. And now here I am, in the wreckage, sifting through the debris, wondering how I let it get this far.
Ensuring your physical well-being and safety is at the base of our human existence…
I can feel the tears welling up now. Paulo’s right—without safety, everything else crumbles. And Timmy has proven, time and time again, that he can’t offer that to me. Especially more recently, instead of building me up, he’s been breaking me down with increasingfrequency. And if I don’t put my safety first, how will I ever climb higher? How will I ever get back to myself?
I clutch my phone to my chest, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over me for Paulo, for his blunt honesty, even though it stings. He’s saying what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. And deep down, I know that every word is true.
The weight on my chest lightens ever so slightly. I wipe the tears from my eyes, take a deep breath, and open my laptop. I type a few lines. Then a few more. The words come easier now, like a dam breaking open.
This—this writing, this space—this is what I imagined my time here would be like. Not the chaos, not the endless drama. Just me. The peaceful mornings, the sound of the ocean, the satisfaction of creating something real, something meaningful. I type until the sun rises, my thoughts spilling out onto the screen, clearing the clutter from my mind.
Later, I take myself for a long walk along the boardwalk, the warm breeze brushing against my skin. I get my steps in, savoring the simplicity of the moment. No arguments, no anxiety. Just the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement and the sun warming my face. I stop for brunch at a little café, order a mimosa, and breathe in the joy of being alone.
For the first time since getting to Sunset Cay, I feel light. Unburdened. Free. This—this is what I came here for. To reconnect with myself, to breathe, to explore without fear. I sip my mimosa slowly, savoring every bit of it.
Later, at the gym, I move my body just for me. No pressure, no expectations. I lift heavy weights, feel my muscles burn, and let the music in my headphones drown out the lingering thoughts of Timmy. It’s not a perfect workout, but it’s mine. And that’s enough.
When I get home, I pull out my oracle deck. I shuffle the cards, letting the tension flow out of my body, and draw one. LISTEN.
I stare at the card for a long time, the word sinking deep into my bones. It truly feels like a message from the universe. A reminder to trust myself, to hear what my intuition has been trying to tell me allalong. I’ve been listening to everyone else—Timmy, his ex, the detective. But it’s time to listen to the one person I’ve been neglecting: me.
Listen to the part of me that knows the truth, the part that’s been whispering in the background this whole time.
It’s time to stop ignoring the voice inside me. Time to stop waiting for someone else to save me.
It’s time to trust myself again.
70
SWITZERLAND WITH A SECRET AGENDA
Isit at the beach once again, the waves gently lapping at the shore as the sun sinks lower on the horizon, and I tell myself, over and over again, that I’ve made the right decision. It feels true, mostly. The chaos of the past few weeks with Timmy has finally quieted, and I can breathe again without waiting for the next unpredictable moment. But as much as I try to convince myself, it feels more like I’m writing a mantra in the sand, knowing full well the tide is coming to wash it away.
Later, at the Dock Bar, I perch at the bar with my laptop, enjoying the sweet release of productivity. My fingers dance over the keys, and the words flow easily—more easily than they have in weeks. The happy hour wings arrive, sticky and messy—not the best option to eat while typing—so I pause to savor them. The mix of hot sauce and salty air fills my senses, and for a brief moment, I feel light. I inhale deeply, the scent of plumeria heavy in the breeze, and gaze out toward Strawberry Head and the endless coastline. The decision to step back from Timmy feels like the right one, my gut for once not in a tight knot.
A while later, I close my laptop and take a leisurely walk throughthe nearby shopping mall. Not because I need anything, but because I can’t stand going back to the apartment just yet. The sight of the broken toilet lid and the gouges in the wall makes my chest tighten every time I see them, and I’m not ready to face it again. But even as I wander aimlessly, something nags at me—this dull ache that Timmy’s absence has left behind. I miss the good times. And there were so many of them—adventures, laughter, the way he made me feel seen. I keep replaying moments in my mind like a movie reel I can’t turn off.
It wasn’t all bad, I tell myself, as if that thought makes it any better. His outburst wasn’t like him—at least, not like the version of him I knew. There has to be more to it. People don’t just change overnight. I want to believe there’s an explanation, a reason hidden beneath the rage. Maybe if I could just understand it, it wouldn’t feel so terrifying.
And the good stuff... oh, the good stuff. The way he helped me set up the apartment, taking pride in every little touch. How he’d played tour guide, showing me his world, filling it with excitement and adventure. How he introduced me to his friends, his boss, and spoke about a future where we’d build a life together. The way he proposed so sweetly. People don’t do those things unless they care, right? There had to be some truth in all that love and affection, didn’t there?
I feel a sinking weight in my stomach when I think about the other side of the coin—the growing tension, the cracks I ignored, the way I started holding my breath whenever we went somewhere new, afraid of what might happen next. That gnawing fear that he might lash out again, that he might not stop at just words or threats next time. And yet… the thought of completely walking away makes me feel like I’m cutting off a limb.
On the way back from the shopping mall, I stop at a bar recommended to me by a friend back in San Francisco. I immediately make friends with the bartender, realizing we have industry friends in common back on the mainland. This is what my life was like before I met Timmy, where I was able to make friends with ease, withoutthere being any drama, any reservations about going some place and having my partner make a scene.
I feel a pit in my stomach at the thought of bringing Timmy somewhere like this. I can’t bring him around quality people and risk him behaving the way he did in front of Natasja and her work acquaintances. And definitely not if he’s ever violent again. I don’t want to give up a life where I can make friends and be invited out to nice places because they don’t have even a slight concern about my behavior. But with Timmy, even before the attack, I was starting to be in a constant state of alert whenever we went anywhere. And after he attacked me, I can’t imagine feeling any differently when it’s just me and him at home.
When I get back home, the apartment feels cold and eerie. I stand in the doorway, surveying the wreckage, my eyes flicking once again to every piece of it he destroyed. I’ve tidied most of it by now, but the structural pieces still remain, as well as a few things I haven’t been able to bring myself to touch. The gouges in the wall. The jagged edge where the toilet lid shattered. The pot he smashed, shards of sentimental ceramic still scattered near the balcony door. My stomach twists. I shiver involuntarily, as though his rage is still lingering in the room, clinging to the air like cigarette smoke.
My phone buzzes with a message from Steve.
Steve:Timmy’s ex keeps texting me.
There’s just a lot of anger and scorn from her.
You seem to be acting like a much more sane person.
Thanks for that. Just thought you should know.