The Honeymoon
Their honeymoon was not the fairytale Clara had imagined as a girl.
The island was beautiful—breathtaking even. A stretch of turquoise waters, palm trees swaying in the breeze, sand that glittered like white sugar under the sun. Ethan’s beach house sat high on a slope overlooking the ocean, sleek and modern, its glass walls opening to endless sea views.
Inside, it was luxurious yet minimal: whitewashed walls, polished wood, wide terraces with hammocks that caught the salty wind. It should have felt like paradise.
But for Clara, it was a paradise meant for two… with only one of them present.
She had packed carefully for this trip, filling her bag with books to keep her company, but also slipping in a polaroid camera she’d bought secretly.
She had imagined moments she wanted to capture—her hand in Ethan’s, a kiss against the backdrop of a flaming sunset, their shadows stretched long across the beach.
But days slipped by, and none of those moments came.
Ethan spent hours locked away in the study with his laptop open, or walking along the terrace with his phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and controlled. Sometimes, she wondered if he was truly working or simply using work as a wall between them.
He would glance up at her from time to time, polite, detached. “You should enjoy the beach,” he said once, as though he were dismissing her to a playground.
So she did. She walked along the shoreline alone, waves curling at her feet.
She sat on the sand with her book open, though she often stared at the horizon instead, her chest aching with a longing she couldn’t name.
She watched couples passing by—laughing, holding hands, stealing kisses as the sun bled into the sea.
Each sight twisted the knife a little deeper.
Why can’t it be us?
At night, they dined together at the long table overlooking the water.
The meals were exquisite, the view romantic, but the silence between them was heavy.
Ethan asked her how her day was in the same tone he’d use for a secretary giving a report.
She answered quietly, pushing food around her plate, craving something—anything—that felt real.
And when she lay down at night, in the same bed, the distance between their bodies felt as wide as the ocean outside.
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One evening, Clara stood on the terrace as the sun sank into the water, painting the sky with fire. The camera felt heavy in her hand. She wanted—desperately wanted—to ask him. To say, Ethan, will you walk with me? Just once? Will you let me have this memory?
But when she turned, he was inside, his back to her, already bent over his laptop.
Her throat tightened. She raised the camera instead and clicked the shutter, capturing the sunset alone.
The picture slid out, colors bleeding into shape. No hand to hold, no face beside hers—just a horizon that didn’t care if she was happy or not.
Clara tucked the picture into her book and swallowed hard.
This was her honeymoon. A dream that belonged to her alone.