Even though I’d spent decades there, my living room felt like a stranger’s space. At 55, I stared at the open suitcase, wondering how my life had come to this.

“How did we get here?” I asked the chipped “Forever & Always” cup in my hand before tossing it aside.

I ran my hand along the couch. “Goodbye to Sunday coffee and pizza fights.”

Memories buzzed in my mind, unwelcome guests I couldn’t evict. In the bedroom, the emptiness hit harder. The other side of the bed stared back at me like an accusation.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered. “It wasn’t all my fault.”

Packing became a scavenger hunt for things that still mattered. The laptop sat on my desk like a beacon.

“At least you stuck around,” I said, patting it.

After two years of work, my novel was inside. It wasn’t finished, but it was mine—proof I wasn’t entirely lost.

Then, Lana’s email came:

“Creative retreat. Warm island. Fresh start. Wine.”

“Of course, wine,” I laughed.

Lana had always been good at making disasters sound appealing. The idea felt reckless, but wasn’t that the point?

I stared at the flight confirmation. My inner voice was relentless.

What if I hate it? Or if they hate me? What if I fall into the ocean and get eaten by sharks?

But then another thought crept in.

What if I enjoy it?

I exhaled and closed the suitcase. “Here’s to running away.”

I wasn’t running away. I was running toward something.

***

The island greeted me with a warm breeze and the rhythmic sound of ocean waves crashing against the shore. For a moment, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the salty air fill my lungs.

This is exactly what I needed.

But the peace didn’t last. As I approached the retreat, the serenity of the island was replaced by loud music and bursts of laughter. People mostly in their 20s and 30s lounged on brightly colored beanbags, holding drinks that seemed more umbrella than liquid.