I woke up early on the fourth morning and arranged a boat tour for all of us. I thought maybe, finally, we’d do something fun together. I got dressed, packed sunscreen, and went to look for Kyle.
But he wasn’t in the suite.
He’d left a quick text: “Not feeling the boat thing. Catch you later.”
When I came back, sunburned and exhausted, I spotted him at the swim-up bar.
He was with another woman. She was tall, tan, laughing like they were old friends. He was leaning in, close enough to whisper.
I stood at a distance, frozen. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Later that night, he came back like nothing had happened. He dropped his sandals on the floor and flopped onto the bed.
“Who was the girl?” I asked, my voice low.
He didn’t even blink. “Just someone I met.”
“You were flirting with her.”
He scoffed. “You’re overthinking it. Don’t be so jealous. You’re paying for this vacation, right? At least let me have some fun.”
That was it.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I just sat there, staring at the wall while he scrolled through his phone again.
That night, while Kyle snored beside me like nothing had happened, I sat on the balcony in silence. The moon hung low over the ocean, the water black and still. I felt hollow, but also clear. I wasn’t going to beg for respect anymore. I wasn’t going to explain why I deserved basic decency.
I was done.
