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SWITZERLAND WITH A SECRET AGENDA

I sit at the beach once again, the waves gently lapping at the shore as the sun sinks lower on the horizon, and I tell myself, over and over again, that I’ve made the right decision. It feels true, mostly. The chaos of the past few weeks with Timmy has finally quieted, and I can breathe again without waiting for the next unpredictable moment. But as much as I try to convince myself, it feels more like I’m writing a mantra in the sand, knowing full well the tide is coming to wash it away.

Later, at the Dock Bar, I perch at the bar with my laptop, enjoying the sweet release of productivity. My fingers dance over the keys, and the words flow easily—more easily than they have in weeks. The happy hour wings arrive, sticky and messy—not the best option to eat while typing—so I pause to savor them. The mix of hot sauce and salty air fills my senses, and for a brief moment, I feel light. I inhale deeply, the scent of plumeria heavy in the breeze, and gaze out toward Strawberry Head and the endless coastline. The decision to step back from Timmy feels like the right one, my gut for once not in a tight knot.

A while later, I close my laptop and take a leisurely walk through the nearby shopping mall. Not because I need anything, but because I can’t stand going back to the apartment just yet. The sight of the broken toilet lid and the gouges in the wall makes my chest tighten every time I see them, and I’m not ready to face it again. But even as I wander aimlessly, something nags at me—this dull ache that Timmy’s absence has left behind. I miss the good times. And there were so many of them—adventures, laughter, the way he made me feel seen. I keep replaying moments in my mind like a movie reel I can’t turn off.

It wasn’t all bad, I tell myself, as if that thought makes it any better. His outburst wasn’t like him—at least, not like the version of him I knew. There has to be more to it. People don’t just change overnight. I want to believe there’s an explanation, a reason hidden beneath the rage. Maybe if I could just understand it, it wouldn’t feel so terrifying.

And the good stuff... oh, the good stuff. The way he helped me set up the apartment, taking pride in every little touch. How he’d played tour guide, showing me his world, filling it with excitement and adventure. How he introduced me to his friends, his boss, and spoke about a future where we’d build a life together. The way he proposed so sweetly. People don’t do those things unless they care, right? There had to be some truth in all that love and affection, didn’t there?

I feel a sinking weight in my stomach when I think about the other side of the coin—the growing tension, the cracks I ignored, the way I started holding my breath whenever we went somewhere new, afraid of what might happen next. That gnawing fear that he might lash out again, that he might not stop at just words or threats next time. And yet… the thought of completely walking away makes me feel like I’m cutting off a limb.

On the way back from the shopping mall, I stop at a bar recommended to me by a friend back in San Francisco. I immediately make friends with the bartender, realizing we have industry friends in common back on the mainland. This is what my life was like before I met Timmy, where I was able to make friends with ease, without there being any drama, any reservations about going some place and having my partner make a scene.

I feel a pit in my stomach at the thought of bringing Timmy somewhere like this. I can’t bring him around quality people and risk him behaving the way he did in front of Natasja and her work acquaintances. And definitely not if he’s ever violent again. I don’t want to give up a life where I can make friends and be invited out to nice places because they don’t have even a slight concern about my behavior. But with Timmy, even before the attack, I was starting to be in a constant state of alert whenever we went anywhere. And after he attacked me, I can’t imagine feeling any differently when it’s just me and him at home.

When I get back home, the apartment feels cold and eerie. I stand in the doorway, surveying the wreckage, my eyes flicking once again to every piece of it he destroyed. I’ve tidied most of it by now, but the structural pieces still remain, as well as a few things I haven’t been able to bring myself to touch. The gouges in the wall. The jagged edge where the toilet lid shattered. The pot he smashed, shards of sentimental ceramic still scattered near the balcony door. My stomach twists. I shiver involuntarily, as though his rage is still lingering in the room, clinging to the air like cigarette smoke.

My phone buzzes with a message from Steve.

Steve: Timmy’s ex keeps texting me.

There’s just a lot of anger and scorn from her.

You seem to be acting like a much more sane person.

Thanks for that. Just thought you should know.

I stare at the message for a long time. Is this meant to be reassuring? A compliment? It feels more like an odd riddle—like Steve’s trying to warn me and encourage me at the same time, without taking a side. And the ambiguity only leaves me more confused .

Later, I call him to get some clarity.

“Listen,” Steve says, his voice calm and even, “I’ve known Timmy since we were kids. I’m not going to tell you what to do—that’s your relationship—but I’ll say this: he’s a good guy at heart. I wouldn’t have stuck around this long if he wasn’t. But... he’s complicated. And I think you have every reason to walk away after what happened. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

His words feel like a life raft and an anchor all at once. The idea that someone who knows Timmy so well still sees good in him—that he’s capable of being a good guy—makes me want to cling to hope. But Steve’s neutral stance is just as unsettling. He’s not telling me to run. He’s not telling me to stay, either. Just that both options are on the table.

“And what about this skanky girl that keeps messaging him? The one he slept with right before he met me? Should I be worried about her?” I ask cautiously.

Steve exhales. “I can’t say for sure, but Timmy’s always been loyal to me. And he’s been talking about you non-stop since you two met. I think he really does care about you.”

I hang up, even more conflicted than before. Steve’s words echo in my mind, encouraging me to see the good in Timmy, but also quietly warning me about the risk. Maybe everyone deserves a second chance. After all, people make mistakes, right? Maybe this whole thing was just a one-time outburst, a horrible fluke.

But the pit in my stomach tells a different story. The memory of his face twisted in rage, the sound of things shattering, the way I had to run from my own apartment—it all lingers, refusing to be smoothed over by sweet words and good intentions.

I miss the way he made me laugh. I miss his affection, his warmth, the way he could light up a room. But can I really trust him again?

I try to distract myself with a TV show, something light and funny. But it’s not the same without him curled up beside me, making ridiculous commentary or holding me close. I close the laptop and sit in the dark, staring at the gouges in the wall. My mind drifts back to the happy moments, to the way he’d make me feel like the center of his world. How do you let go of someone who makes you feel like that?

I miss him. God help me, I really miss him.

And yet... I can’t shake the fear that, if I let him back into my life, the cycle will start all over again. And next time, I might not be so lucky.