"Rosie Moore, 25 years old. All checks out. Except another guest. Our system shows the reservation for two guests—a Mr. Rhys Parker too—will he be arriving shortly?" the receptionist at Villa Dewi said very energetically, glancing up from her screen with a smile on her face.
The air held the warmth of sunlight, mingled with sea salt and hibiscus, but none of it could touch me. I slipped off my sunglasses. "No." Tucking them into my bag, I said, "He won't be coming."
Her faint smile faltered—perhaps she noticed the dark circles under my eyes, the weight I was carrying. I knew what she felt. Pity.
"I see. No problem. Right this way please." She quickly settled into professional courtesy.
The location wasn't bad at all. It was like a dream. The villa was beautifully decorated. I followed her through stone corridors draped in bougainvillea, past the murmur of fountains and the distant hush of waves coming from the lagoon.
When we reached the room, the staff placed my luggage inside with quiet efficiency. A brief nod. A professional greeting wishing me for a pleasant stay. Then the door clicked shut.
And I was alone.
The silence broke open inside my head.
Just what I was fearing, I thought. The memories. The replaying of every word, every fight, every moment I should have walked away. I pressed my palms against my eyes. I should be tired from the journey. Instead, my mind was overactive trying to ruin my mood.
But I wouldn't let the tainted past tarnish this place. Bali was supposed to be a new beginning—for me.
Still, the memories came anyway.
I met Rhys six years ago, when my first novel tanked so hard I couldn't afford dinner and told myself I was just "intermittent fasting." He was a small-time publisher then, running PNH publishing house out of a cramped office with a coffee maker that hadn't been cleaned since the Obama administration. But he believed in me. Bore the losses. Told me not to give up.
And I didn't. My next four books became bestsellers. PNH grew with me, and somewhere along the way, gratitude blurred into something else.
It was after my first hit that we started dating. Back then, he used to bring me flowers. Took me out on dates. I thought that was the beginning of forever.
I didn't realize it was the beginning of an end.
The penthouse I insisted he move into—our future, or so I thought—soon became a revolving door for his editors, writers, and artist friends. Laughter and smoke filled every night. He paraded me through those parties, introducing me as the talent he'd "discovered," pointing to my trophies as proof of his genius.
At first, I told myself this was what success looked like. This was the world we'd built together. Together.
But somewhere in the noise, I disappeared. I shrank, slowly, until there was nothing left of me. I started believing my talent was, in fact, his creation. And because I believed it, I started acting like it—I became someone without a self of her own.
I gave him a home. He gave me his absence.
The parties continued, but I was no longer the guest of honor. I was the woman in the corner of my own home, holding a drink I didn't want, watching him work the room. Sometimes he'd glance my way—a quick smile, a raised glass as if I was an invited guest—but his eyes always moved on. There was always someone more important to talk to. Another writer to impress. Another deal to make, using my name, my reputation, my awards.
I told myself it was fine. That this was what love looked like. That I was supporting him the way he'd once supported me.
But I guess that wasn't enough.
Somewhere along the way, he stopped coming home.
At first, it was late nights at the office. Then all-nighters he said he couldn't avoid. Then whole weekends. When I asked—when I dared to ask—he'd brush me off with a tired sigh, a "you wouldn't understand the pressure I'm under," a "I'm building something for us."
When he did come home, it was only to host. The penthouse would fill with people—his people, his industry contacts—and he'd be on. Charming. Magnetic. The man I'd fallen for. But when the last guest left, so did he. Not physically, not always. But something in him shut off. He'd sit on the couch, scrolling through his phone, answering messages, already somewhere else.
I tried to reach him. I'd bring him coffee. Sit beside him. Ask about his day. He'd answer in monosyllables, his eyes never leaving the screen.
One night, I asked him if he wanted to watch a movie—just us, like we used to.
He looked at me like I'd suggested something absurd. "I have work, Rosie."
"It's eleven."
"And I have a business to run." He said it slowly, like I was a child who didn't understand.
He went into his office and closed the door.
I stood in the hallway for a long time, staring at the wood grain, listening to the silence on the other side. The penthouse I'd bought for us felt like a cage I'd built with my own hands.
I stopped writing around then. Unfinished works were piling up. I couldn't concentrate on anything.
Ironically, he'd insist I leave his gatherings to focus on my next book. "You should be working," he'd say, his tone would be laced with a slight irritation. It felt insulting at times. But I couldn't leave. I was terrified that if I stepped away from his world—if I stopped being present at his parties, if I stopped being visible—he'd forget me entirely. And what would be left of me then?
So instead, I picked up his habits. Drank what he drank. Smoked what he smoked. Stayed up when he stayed up. I told myself that if I mirrored his chaos, he'd finally see me again. That if I became what he was, he'd have to notice me.
He didn't.
If anything, the distance grew colder. Where once he'd brushed me off with irritation, now he barely acknowledged me at all. I was a fixture in the penthouse I'd bought—present, but not worth acknowledging.
The fights started when I began asking questions. "Where were you? Why didn't you call? Who were you with?"
"You're being dramatic."
"I just want to know where you were."
"You don't trust me."
"How can I when you won't tell me anything?"
"This is why I don't come here."
That one always shut me up. Because maybe he was right. Maybe I was the problem. Maybe if I were more understanding, less needy, more something—he'd want to be here. In the home I gave him. With the life I built for us.
The fights became about my writing, too. Or rather, my lack of it. He'd slip it into arguments like a weapon kept sharp for the right moment. "If you put as much energy into your work as you do into interrogating me, maybe you'd have finished something by now."
I'd flinch with disbelief. He knew he'd landed a blow. And the conversation would end—not because we'd resolved anything, but because I didn't have the strength to keep fighting.
But one day, I didn't want to finish the fight and confessed thinking he would offer some compassionate sympathy, "Rhys." My voice was small. "I haven't—I haven't been able to finish. A book. In two years."
He didn't say anything at first. Just looked at me. The way you look at something you're trying to decide whether to keep or throw away.
"You haven't written anything?" He asked again, as if to make sure he heard me right.
"It's just..." I shook my head. "It's a block. It happens. It'll pass."
"Will it?" He said it so quietly I almost didn't hear. Then he turned back to his phone, and the conversation was over. Again.
But for that one second—the briefest flicker of eye contact—I saw exactly what he thought of me.
Useless.
I had felt something shifting between us from that moment—a quiet distance that spread astronomically.