There’s something idyllic 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, hot and 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 (except maybe your dignity). They, too, will freeze you in time as the version of you who laughed easily, smelled like sunscreen and (ideally) never checked emails.
Holiday romances are pure… but naughty. Sweet. Reckless. Slightly delusional. They're fueled by sunsets, wine or tequila, salty hair and sticky skin (mind you, I've never heard of mountain cottage romances 😅), and the mutual agreement that reality can wait.
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 always ending with:
“… it really felt like something.”
