Scarlett Jones Solo Honeymoon ((better)) ✪

On her last morning, Scarlett Jones woke before sunrise. She walked to the end of the wooden pier, coffee in hand, and watched the sky turn from bruise-purple to pearl-pink. A reef shark glided below. A pair of lovebirds squawked in a palm tree. None of it belonged to anyone but her.

That night, she danced alone at the tiki bar. A slow song came on. She put her hand on her own shoulder, the other on an imaginary waist, and swayed. At first, it felt sad. Then it felt like a first dance. scarlett jones solo honeymoon

She wrote him a letter she’ll never send. On her last morning, Scarlett Jones woke before sunrise

She had planned this trip for eighteen months. The deposit on the overwater bungalow in Bora Bora was non-refundable. The seat next to her on the plane—the one where his tall frame should have been spilling into her shoulder—was empty. A pair of lovebirds squawked in a palm tree

And Scarlett Jones—just Scarlett—had never traveled lighter in her life. A solo honeymoon isn’t a tragedy. Sometimes it’s the first real trip you ever take.

She ordered two entrées at the beachfront grill—his usual spicy tuna, her favorite mango salad. She ate both. It was the most she’d eaten in a month.