There’s something blissful about holiday romances.
You could get the full essence of a relationship, the spark, the drama, the intimacy, and emotional damage in under five business days.
They’re fast like a hurricane. A force of nature. A flame that burns bright with zero regard for future consequences.
And yet...what a joy it is to hold someone’s hand on the beach. To look them in the eyes and agree, silently, that the rest of the world has simply been… temporarily deleted.
In a holiday romance, you get to self-edit yourself. You can hide your weird habits and emotional baggage, or overshare your entire life story by day three. Either way, it’s fine. Everything is acceptable. You have nothing to lose (dignity was gone the moment you said yes to this). They, too, will freeze you in time as the version of you who laughed easily and smelled like sunscreen.
Holiday romances are pure… and naughty. Sweet. Reckless. Almost delusional. They're fueled by sunsets, wine or tequila, salty hair and sticky toffee skin (mind you, I've never heard of mountain cottage romances 😅), and the mutual agreement that reality can wait (but for how long?).
And then comes the goodbye. A slow, sad farewell, hanging heavy with unanswered questions, warm hugs, and the eternal sigh of what if?
A short-lived story you’ll most certainly retell someday. Always a little more romantic, a little less accurate and, most of the time, ending with:
“… it really felt like something.”
