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IMPROVISED PRISON CELL

T here’s something both ironic and soul-crushing about living in a tropical paradise surrounded by sunshine, beaches, and swaying palm trees—yet feeling like you’re stuck in a slightly larger prison cell.

That’s how it feels at Matty’s.

Yes, the air conditioning is nice, a relief from the relentless heat, but it’s the only luxury. The windows stay permanently closed, shutting out any hint of natural light or fresh air. The tiny, fenced-in patio smells like stale cigarette smoke, the scent so thick it seems to cling to my skin even after I shower. It’s a grim little space, like an open-air ashtray.

At first, I half-joked to myself that this place reminds me of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—a quirky, chaotic place, Timmy and Matty playing the oddball grandparent characters. But as the days drag on, I can’t shake the unsettling realization—Timmy is unconsciously recreating prison for himself.

The parallels are striking.

He and Matty sleep in beds lined up side by side like cellmates. They rarely go outside except to smoke. The concrete walls, devoid of art or color, seem to absorb any joy I bring in with me. Timmy barely exercises or leaves the apartment unless I coax him out, and even then, it’s a struggle. Their biggest indulgences are movies on repeat, streaming endlessly, and the occasional fried meal cooked in so much oil it sets off the smoke detector.

It’s a bizarre halfway existence—not quite free, not quite imprisoned. The only real difference from an actual jail cell is the ability to cook and surf channels on TV. But somehow, this feels even sadder. There’s freedom all around us—on the beaches, in the mountains, under the clear blue skies—and yet here we are, holed up in a dark, musty apartment, like the outside world is too much to bear.

I understand that for many people, even this modest apartment would be considered a luxury. Sunset Cay isn’t exactly affordable. Foreign investors have transformed it into a playground for the wealthy, with overpriced Airbnbs and luxury villas that sit empty most of the year. Locals can barely afford to live here anymore. I get that. And I know it’s not entirely Timmy’s fault that this is where we ended up—even if he hadn’t attacked me or swung his penis around the balcony, vexatious noise complaints were flowing thick and fast, and that building was never going to be a long-term solution.

But I still can’t ignore the gnawing resentment that rises inside me. I left behind a beautiful, bright apartment with a view of the ocean, easy access to the beach, and a pool. I had natural sunlight pouring in every morning, a place where I could sit and write with peace of mind. And now, because of Timmy—because of his impulsiveness, his inability to control his rage—I lost it all. He took it away from me with no real understanding of what he was taking.

He says he’s sorry, and maybe he is. But words are easy, and I’ve learned they don’t mean much unless they’re backed by action. And he’s not exactly making an effort to fix what’s broken—not with the apartment, not with me. He apologizes, but the weight of everything still rests on my shoulders.

I’m the one who gets up early every day, puts on my shoes, and walks to the beach for the sunrise. I’m the one finding ways to escape Matty’s suffocating apartment, taking long walks in the sunshine, getting my heart rate up, and breathing in the fresh, salty air .

I’m the one buying healthy groceries and preparing meals with fresh ingredients, trying to nourish both of us. Meanwhile, Timmy spends his food stamps on processed, greasy junk food, which he and Matty devour without a second thought. They bond over bacon and fried hash browns while I try to remind myself that love is supposed to be about compromise.

I try to reframe things, to keep the resentment at bay. I tell myself that Timmy has his good moments, too. He shows glimmers of understanding that make me believe, just for a moment, that he gets it. Like when he takes me out occasionally to work away from Matty’s, finding coffee shops where we can sit side by side and dream about the future. Or when he encourages me to watch my own shows now and then without complaining. Those small acts of kindness remind me that he does care, that he’s trying in his own way.

He praises my food, saying, “I actually like salads now. You’ve changed me.” He brings me ice cream, cuddles with me, and tells jokes that make me laugh so hard I forget the frustration for a little while. Those moments feel like gold, fleeting but precious, and they keep me tethered to him.

So I try. I try to convince myself that this is exactly what I need—a slower pace, fewer expectations, less perfection. Maybe it’s good for me to learn how to live without all the things I thought I needed. Maybe this stripped-down version of life is what I was meant to experience all along.

But the resentment lingers, simmering beneath the surface. And I know it’s only a matter of time before it bubbles over.

And the truth is, I love him. I could live in a cardboard box with Timmy and still feel happy, as long as we’re together. When he’s good to me, when he holds me close and tells me he loves me, there’s no question in my mind. I’d choose him over material things every time. Because that’s what you do when you love someone. Right?

But deep down, I know it’s not that simple. He took something important from me, and I’m not sure he even realizes how deeply it hurt. The sunlight, the view, the freedom—I’m mourning those things in ways I never expected. And what hurts most is knowing that I’m the one making the effort to adjust, to make things work, to keep moving forward. He’s content to stay where he is, trapped in his own little world of movies and cigarettes.

At the same time, whenever I think about this, a little voice says to me, If you stick with Timmy, living in a cardboard box might not be so far-fetched , a thought that makes my stomach churn.