I don’t know why I thought this would work. Every day is a postcard, I swear. The water here is that ridiculous color you only see in filters, and the sunsets are the kind of vibrant that almost hurts your eyes. And yeah, the work is good. Freelance graphic design, setting my own hours, living in a bungalow practically on the beach. This is the dream, right? The one I worked my ass off for, the one I used to stare at pictures of during those endless nights on post, counting down the minutes until my shift ended. I got out, got away from all of it, and made something… free. That’s what I tell myself anyway. But honestly, most nights I just sit here, listening to the waves crash, and feel this cold, hollow ache that no amount of paradise can fill. It’s like I traded one kind of prison for another, just with better scenery. The anger is a constant companion now. It’s not a fiery, explosive rage, more like a dull, persistent throb behind my eyes. I’m angry at myself for being so stupidly optimistic, for thinking a change of latitude would fix everything. I’m angry at my family for… for just existing, I guess, for having lives that don’t involve me anymore. I see their updates on social media, all these little milestones and inside jokes, and it feels like watching a movie where I used to be a main character but now I’m just an extra, fading into the background. And I’m furious at the sheer, overwhelming loneliness. I can talk to clients, sure, exchange pleasantries about hex codes and branding, but there’s no one here who actually *knows* me. No one who’s seen me at my worst, no one who understands what it was like back then, what it *did* to me. They just see the easy-going expat with the cool job, not the person who still wakes up in a cold sweat sometimes, heart pounding, listening for sounds that aren’t there. Is that weird? To miss the structured chaos, the shared burden, even the sheer terror of it all? To trade the camaraderie of people who understood death for the superficial politeness of people who only talk about their next yoga retreat? I scroll through my phone at 2 AM, looking at old photos, blurry pictures of faces I barely recognize anymore, and I just… I want to scream. What was the point of all that discipline, all that pushing, all that sacrifice, if I just ended up here, alone, watching the tide come in and feeling absolutely nothing but this bitter, burning resentment? I’m supposed to be living my best life, but mostly I just feel like I’m waiting for it to end.