That day, he looked at me like I was his whole world. Everything around us had felt soft and magical, like we were inside a dream I never wanted to end.
Now here I was, sitting at our kitchen table, completely alone. The daylight outside had faded into dull gray, and the soft glow from my laptop was the only light left in the room, casting a pale halo across my face.
I found myself going through our wedding pictures again.
There I was—grinning from ear to ear, cheeks flushed with happiness, my head gently leaning on Mike’s shoulder.
His arm was wrapped snugly around me, and we looked like the perfect couple—confident, close, unshakable.
But something had changed since then. It hadn’t happened suddenly or with drama. It was subtle, creeping in like a slow leak that eventually wears down even the strongest stone.
Mike was constantly preoccupied. Always tired. If he wasn’t neck-deep in work emails, he was glued to his phone, chatting with colleagues or keeping up with fantasy football scores.
So I opened a new tab on the browser and typed “honeymoon beach resorts.”. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a beat before I hit the search button.
Instantly, vibrant images popped up—turquoise seas, soft white beaches, candlelit meals by the water. My chest felt tight just looking at them. I needed something, anything, to reconnect us to who we were before.
The door creaked open behind me. I didn’t bother to turn around. I just said what was on my mind.
Mike froze in place. “You did what?”
I stood and looked him right in the eye. “I booked it. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”
He ran his fingers over his forehead like he was trying to erase the stress from his day. “Sam, come on. This week? I’ve got two projects launching, and—”
“Not now?” I replied, sharper than I intended. “When then? When we’ve stopped caring? When we’re just two strangers in the same house?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me in silence.
I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around his waist, leaning into him. For that brief moment, I felt like the version of myself I’d almost forgotten—the bride with stars in her eyes.
The hotel was like something straight out of a romantic movie.
Tall palm trees swayed gently in the warm breeze, and sheer white curtains danced in the open windows like slow, graceful performers.
Somewhere past the building, I could hear the soft, steady rhythm of the ocean—it was like a song that wrapped around the hotel and hushed everything else.
He smiled back at me, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I saw that light in his eyes again.
He pulled our suitcases through the grand entrance, and in that moment, it really felt like we had finally dropped the baggage we’d been silently carrying for months.
With my heart pounding, I walked up to the reception desk. It had been such a long time since I’d felt this kind of thrill about anything.
“Reservation under Whitaker,” I said with a bit of confidence, straightening my posture. “King suite.”
“You’re in a double room, standard,” she said, casting a quick glance up at me.
I blinked, surprised. “No,” I said, trying to stay composed. “I paid for the suite. It’s in the confirmation.”
Maddie kept clicking and tapping with a tight-lipped expression. Then she slowly shook her head. “Sorry. It’s not in the system.”
My stomach dropped. I pulled out my phone, hands trembling just a little, and showed her every piece of proof—confirmation email, card charge, everything.
“There’s nothing I can do right now,” she said. “Our manager will be available later this evening.”
“I want to speak to her now,” I said, my words a bit too sharp. I hadn’t meant to raise my voice, but the frustration was boiling over.
“She’s not on the property at the moment,” Maddie replied, taking a small step back like she expected me to lose it.
Before I could say more, Mike stepped in beside me. He rested a calming hand on my back.
“Let’s go to the room,” he said softly. “We’ll talk to the manager later, okay?”
The room we got was… underwhelming. No ocean view. No deep bathtub to sink into. Just scratchy tan blankets and thick curtains that swallowed the sunlight whole.
With a loud thud, I dropped my bag on the bed and crossed my arms tightly. My jaw was clenched so hard it hurt.
Mike sat down beside me and gently took my hand in his. He held it between both of his like he was trying to keep it from floating away.
“Look,” he murmured, “this trip is about you and me. Not rooms. Let’s not waste it being angry.”
I looked at him, at the way his eyes softened as they searched my face. Slowly, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
About an hour later, while I was fixing my hair in front of the mirror, there was a knock at our door.
I opened it and found a woman standing there. She appeared to be in her fifties—tall, lean, with sharp cheekbones and lips that barely curved.
She wore a slate-gray blazer that matched the coldness in her expression. Her face was unreadable, like a statue weathered by time and emotionless from seeing too much.
“I’m Madeline,” she said in a dry, almost brittle tone. “Hotel manager.”
“As you can see,” I told her, doing my best to keep my voice even. “I reserved the king suite. And I paid for it in full.”
She barely glanced at the screen, just a fleeting look. It was like she already knew what was there and had decided it didn’t matter.
“Yes,” she replied, her tone flat. “There was an error. That suite has already been given to another guest.”
My mouth opened, but I couldn’t find the words right away. I could feel the heat rising up my neck. “So what now?” I asked, my voice sharper now. “You just shrug and say too bad?”
I waited, expecting at least a small gesture of empathy. A look. A word. Anything that might show she understood how disappointing this was.
“No refund? No apology?” I asked, my fists curling tightly at my sides.
“That’s our policy,” she said, like she was reciting something she’d said a hundred times before. “Good evening.”
She turned abruptly and walked off, the sound of her heels striking the tile echoing down the hallway.
I stood frozen in the doorway, shaking with frustration. Mike appeared behind me and gently touched my arm to bring me back.
He leaned in and kissed my forehead. It was warm and comforting, a gentle reminder of what was still real between us. “I’ll get us a table by the window downstairs,” he added softly. “Take your time.”
I gave a small nod and closed the door behind him as he left.
But my mind kept replaying the scene. The way Madeline had spoken to me—so detached, so dismissive. It didn’t sit right. Something deeper was going on. This didn’t feel like a simple booking error. It felt like she had made it personal.
And I couldn’t shake the need to find out why.
Earlier, I’d seen Madeline vanish into a hallway marked for staff—tucked behind the main lobby, unnoticed by most guests. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but I had to follow my instincts.
Down the corridor I went. At the very end, I found a nondescript beige door—no number, no welcome mat. Just a plain door, forgotten and ignored by everyone but her.
I stayed hidden, pressed flat against the wall, hardly breathing. Minutes passed. Then, finally, the door opened, and Madeline stepped out with a folder tucked under her arm.
That was my moment.
Beside the door was an unattended cleaning cart, stocked with towels and those little bottles of shampoo.
Right on top of it, as if forgotten, was a keycard. My hands trembled as I picked it up. I paused, thinking about Mike and how this was clearly crossing a line.
But then I slid the card into the door lock. The light turned green.
The room inside was still. Silent. It had the faint scent of lemon cleaner mixed with something older, like worn paper.
The bed was perfectly made, the sheets pulled tight and the corners so crisp it looked untouched.
There were no photos. No personal items on the nightstand. No signs that someone actually lived there. It felt less like a home and more like a place someone simply passed through.
By the window sat a desk. A notebook was open on it, as if someone had been writing and left in the middle of a thought.
I knew I shouldn’t touch it. But I couldn’t help myself—my fingers moved on their own.
“Another couple tonight. Laughing. Arguing. Crying. Always wasting the time they have.”
“I watch them from a distance. I wonder what it would feel like to have someone wait for you with flowers in their hands.”
“If I ever find love, I won’t forget how lucky I am. I won’t waste it on being busy, or distracted, or angry. I’ll just hold it like a warm coat in the winter.”
The ink on the pages was smudged, as if tears had fallen and spread the words. I touched the paper gently. It was soft and wrinkled from emotion.
She was just lonely.
A thick lump formed in my throat. My thoughts turned to Mike, waiting for me downstairs with hope in his heart and love still in his eyes.
Here I was, wasting precious time over a room, when I had something Madeline probably only ever dreamed of having.
The shame hit hard. It pressed on my chest and made it hard to breathe.
I had come so close to forgetting what really mattered.
When I stepped into the restaurant, Mike stood up immediately. The candlelight danced across his features, softening them and making him look like the man I fell in love with all over again.
“You’re radiant,” he said, his tone warm and full of feeling I hadn’t heard in far too long.
I smiled, even though my throat felt tight and knotted. I slowly walked over to the table and slid into the seat across from him.
The tablecloth was crisp and white. In the middle was a tiny vase holding fresh flowers that smelled faintly of spring—like hope blooming again.
I reached across the table and held his hands. The rough texture of his skin was familiar, grounding. His thumbs moved slowly over my knuckles, calming me.
“I owe you an apology,” I whispered, the words catching slightly in my throat as I said them.
“For letting everything else matter more than you,” I told him, the words slipping out with a weight I hadn’t expected. “For almost ruining this trip. For almost forgetting us.”
Mike slowly shook his head and gently squeezed my hands. “We both forgot, Sam,” he said. “It’s not just you. Life got noisy. We stopped listening.”
I glanced down at our joined hands, feeling the courage building up inside me for what I had to say next.
“I followed her,” I murmured, barely louder than a breath. “The manager. Madeline. I went into her room.”
He looked surprised, his eyebrows rising slightly. But he didn’t let go. He stayed quiet, waiting for me to finish.
“She was hurting. She sees couples like us every day. And all she feels is what she’s missing. I think… I think she wishes she had what we have. And I almost threw it away, Mike. Over a stupid room.”
He leaned in closer until we were almost nose to nose, and I could see the tiny flecks of gold swirling in his brown eyes. “So we remember now?” he asked softly.
I nodded, blinking away the tears that clouded my vision.
“From now on, I choose you,” I said, letting the words fill the space between us. “Even if the bed’s lumpy and the view sucks.”
We clinked glasses of inexpensive wine, and to our surprise, it tasted better than anything we’d ever ordered from a fancy list. Maybe it was the moment. Maybe it was the company.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Madeline walking through the dining area, clipboard tucked in her arms. Her steps were steady, her face unreadable, just like before.
But then our eyes met for a brief moment.
I gave her a smile. It wasn’t big, but it was sincere.
And this time—she smiled back.
This piece draws inspiration from the everyday experiences of our readers and was written by a professional author. Any resemblance to real names or places is purely coincidental. All visuals are meant for illustration only.
