You will return home. You will unpack your suitcase and find a seashell they put in your pocket. You will smell the sunscreen on your jacket and feel a phantom limb of longing. You will try to message them, but the time zones are wrong and the Wi-Fi is bad.
And that is exactly how it should end. Because some loves are not meant to survive the winter. They are meant to be a perfect, messy, intoxicated firework over a foreign sky—brief, brilliant, and utterly unforgettable.
This is the golden week. You rent scooters and get lost. You miss your train to the next city because you’re too busy arguing about whether La La Land is actually a good movie. You share a single towel. You learn the word for "stay" in their language. You convince yourself that "long distance" is a minor logistical problem, not a death sentence. The alcohol isn't just booze here; it is the courage to say, "I think I’m falling for you" after knowing them for only 72 hours.
