So I try. I try to convince myself that this is exactly what I need—a slower pace, fewer expectations, less perfection. Maybe it’s good for me to learn how to live without all the things I thought I needed. Maybe this stripped-down version of life is what I was meant to experience all along.
But the resentment lingers, simmering beneath the surface. And I know it’s only a matter of time before it bubbles over.
And the truth is, I love him. I could live in a cardboard box with Timmy and still feel happy, as long as we’re together. When he’s good to me, when he holds me close and tells me he loves me, there’s no question in my mind. I’d choose him over material things every time. Because that’s what you do when you love someone. Right?
But deep down, I know it’s not that simple. He took something important from me, and I’m not sure he even realizes how deeply it hurt. The sunlight, the view, the freedom—I’m mourning those things in ways I never expected. And what hurts most is knowing thatI’m the one making the effort to adjust, to make things work, to keep moving forward. He’s content to stay where he is, trapped in his own little world of movies and cigarettes.
At the same time, whenever I think about this, a little voice says to me,If you stick with Timmy, living in a cardboard box might not be so far-fetched, a thought that makes my stomach churn.
78
TRAPPED IN PARADISE
Over the next month or so, the pattern with Timmy becomes clearer each day, though it’s not one I like admitting to myself. But it’s becoming harder and harder to deny.
He’s definitely not a morning person—fine, not everyone is. But it’s more than that. It’s like the motivation that once seemed to drive him evaporated overnight and somehow continues to drain further with each passing moment.
I tell myself it’s okay. Maybe he just needs to adjust to our new environment. But there’s a gnawing discomfort that settles deeper.
I decide not to let his moods and his lethargy dictate my life.
Nearly every morning, I continue to slip out of bed and make my way to the beach to catch sunrise and write. It’s become my sanctuary—my escape. The sky shifts from indigo to a swirl of pinks and purples, the sunrise painting the horizon in gentle strokes. The air is crisp, quieter than the bustling daytime. I savor the peaceful lull before Sunset Cay wakes up—the soft clink of cutlery from hotel guests enjoying an early breakfast at the hotel restaurant behind me, the rhythmic rustle of the surf as it kisses the shore, and the beach boys setting up their cabanas and surfboards all around.
This is the part of my day I cherish most. I’ve developed my own routine—I stop by the hotel coffee shop, order a strong iced coffee, and then find a spot near the water to settle in. My backpack becomes my makeshift desk, and between bursts of writing, I let my gaze wander to the horizon. This is what I came here for—time to reflect, to create, to feel inspired by the simple beauty of the ocean.
But each time I return to the apartment, it’s like I’ve stepped into a different world. Timmy is almost always still in bed, cocooned in the blankets, oblivious to the sunlight pouring through the curtains. On the rare occasion he’s awake, the smell of frying bacon or steak fills the air. His routine remains the same. Matty’s already camped out in the living room, usually having slept on the couch the night before, glued to YouTube videos about obscure machinery or DIY projects. The noise of his tedious videos fills the apartment, chaotic and relentless. It’s still impossible to write here, impossible to think or be remotely creative or inspired.
The apartment feels more and more like a cave, dark and stifling. The air conditioning blasts continuously, the curtains drawn to block out any sign of the vibrant tropical world outside. I keep trying to nudge Timmy into action, despite his resistance.
“Can we do something today? Take a walk, grab a coffee?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light, coming up with more and more plans in the hope that one of them will pique his interest.
“I don’t feel like it,” he mumbles, still buried in the blankets.
The same apathy, the same excuses. It’s as though the man who once brimmed with excitement for every little thing has checked out completely.
Frustration bubbles to the surface, me now the one full of resentment.”"I didn’t move all the way to Sunset Cay just to sit in a room with the curtains closed, watching movies,” I snap one day, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
His expression shifts instantly, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his face. “I’m sorry this isn’t good enough for you,” he says coldly. “You could just go back to your apartment if you wanted. You don’t have to be here. I’m not the only reason we got kicked out.”
The audacity of it takes my breath away. I know the real reason, and so does he. But in Timmy’s world, truth is a slippery concept. It morphs and bends to fit whatever narrative suits him. And somehow, he’s found a way to share the blame with me. I can feel the shame creeping in, even though I know better.
“Would you at least come with me to see the sunrise?” I ask him. “It would be nice if we could go together.”
He groans. “And do what? Watch you type? What am I supposed to do, just sit there?”
“Swim? Collect shells? The same things you love doing at the beach?” I say, exasperated.
“Yeah, I guess,” he mutters. But his tone tells me everything—I shouldn’t hold my breath.
Then, one morning, he surprises me. “Let’s go to the beach,” he announces. I’m caught off-guard but excited. Maybe this is the turning point.
He drives Matty and me down to the water, but when we arrive, it’s not the beach I love—the one where I write, where I feel at peace. It’s a different spot altogether. I sit in the passenger seat, confused and a little hurt.
Without a word, Timmy jumps out of the car and heads straight for the ocean, Matty in tow. He dives in, swimming effortlessly, completely ignoring me. No invitation, no acknowledgment. I remain sitting in the truck, feeling foolish and abandoned, watching him enjoy the water on his own while Matty wanders off to the other side of the parking lot.
I want to follow Timmy in, but something stops me. The hurt festers, turning into bitterness. This wasn’t what I imagined—this wasn’t the romantic sunrise swim I had hoped for. I stay in the car, arms crossed, feeling angry and sulky and alone.
When he finally returns, droplets of seawater clinging to his skin, he looks at me with a mixture of confusion and frustration. I’m clearly agitated. “What’s the problem with you?” he asks, brushing water from his hair.