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THE ONLY THING HE SURFS IS THE INTERNET

A t this point, the resentment of having to be at Matty’s isn’t just simmering beneath the surface, with the occasional sputter where it rears its ugly head. It’s cascading, frothing over, constantly. Each day, I seethe, feeling like something precious has been stolen.

My routine is still my salvation in the earlier parts of the day—yet, by the afternoon, like clockwork, I feel the need to speak up, and it inevitably creates a daily conflict.

Timmy is resentful that I’m resentful.

I try to drink it away, numbing myself with booze, trying to stop caring that this is my new life. But it doesn’t work. Sitting in the dark room, nursing vodka or whiskey or hard seltzer, does nothing to satisfy my craving for sunshine, fresh air, writing, and joy.

My resentment just continues to brew from an endless supply, as if pouring from a limitless cup of poison.

“Timmy,” I say, on yet another afternoon, “we can’t just sit around here every day. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Usually, his mouth just twists into a scowl, ready to hiss projectiles defending the situation, as if my discontentment is the problem, and my problem alone .

But one day, instead of yelling at me, he just sighs, as if my request is a burden. “I get it, Margaux. I’ll try harder.”

I blink in surprise, not sure if this is some kind of cruel test.

I can’t stand it. “Timmy,” I plead, “can we please go somewhere? Just the two of us? Matty’s very kind to let us stay, and I don’t mind him coming along with us on some outings, but I need time just with you. To focus on us.”

He looks at me, guilt flickering in his expression. “Okay,” he says. “I get it. I’ll do better.”

And, once again, to my surprise, he does. We find a small café a few blocks away—a Starbucks, of all things, nestled inside a hospital. It’s well-lit, has plentiful tables, wi-fi, and even a cute little outdoor area.

It becomes our new temporary workspace, where he designs graphics and I write. Sitting beside him, working together on our individual projects, feels almost like a dream—a glimpse of the life we talked about, the life I thought we’d have. He’s focused and creative, and it’s infectious. His excitement for his designs makes me feel more motivated, more alive.

It’s not perfect, though. Every few days, I have to remind him not to slip back into old habits. But it’s progress, and I tell myself that progress, no matter how incremental, is still worth celebrating. Two steps forward, one and a half steps back—but forward nonetheless.

As frustrating as it can be, I also wonder if this slower pace is teaching me something. Maybe the relentless urgency I’ve always felt isn’t sustainable. Maybe I need to slow down, to embrace this more relaxed rhythm of life. Maybe the universe brought me here to learn exactly that.

And so I try to be patient, to appreciate the little victories. The coffee shop afternoons, the moments when he listens without defensiveness, the rare times he wakes up early enough to see the sunrise with me—just kidding, he never does that. But I remind myself that change doesn’t happen overnight, and maybe I just need to give him—and myself—more grace.

But deep down, I can’t ignore the restless itch beneath my skin, the nagging voice that whispers this might not be enough. That no matter how many steps forward we take, we’re always teetering on the edge of sliding back—and, like a game of chutes and ladders, maybe it won’t be just half a step back, the setback could be huge.

Because, while it is a form of progress, let’s be real—we’re sitting in a chain coffee shop inside a hospital—not on the beach or by a pool enjoying what the Cay really has to offer. Not surfing, or swimming, or walking hand in hand along the boardwalk, all of which now feel like a distant dream.

And I wonder how long I can hold on, hoping for the life I imagined, while the reality of life with Timmy pulls me in the opposite direction.