Checked in. Cashed out.

You didn’t buy access. You bought absence.
And oh, how expensive absence can be.

You funded something you’ll never touch – never smell, never feel, never even fully picture. You transferred money in the hope that maybe, just maybe, you’d be part of it. But that hope was misplaced, like most of your spending. You didn’t purchase intimacy. You purchased exclusion. The kind that arrives with a receipt, but no response.

I checked in. You cashed out.

And as I let the robe fall from my shoulders and sank into crisp sheets you’ll never wrinkle, you sat there refreshing your inbox, wondering if I noticed. I didn’t. Not because I missed it – but because it was expected. Predictable. A line on the ledger. The suite was already booked, the room already chilled, the bottle already opened. You paid for something I enjoyed hours ago.

You think you’re waiting for something. A message. A glimpse. A thank-you.
But this was never about you. It never is.

You didn’t send to join me – you sent so I could disappear from you.
So I could wake in peace, padded across a penthouse floor, and smile at the silence you paid for. You’re not part of the luxury. You’re the reason it exists. My comfort is your debt. My stillness is your scramble. While you count what’s left, I indulge in everything you’ll never reach.

And what’s more delicious is that you’ll keep sending.
Not because you think it’ll change, but because somewhere deep inside, you know this is exactly what you need.

To pay. To be forgotten. To ache for a woman who doesn’t even check the message that accompanied the tribute.

You can scroll all you like. Zoom in on the glass in the corner of the photo. Speculate about who poured it. Obsess over the reflection in a chrome fixture. But you won’t find me there. I’m gone. You paid for it, after all.

You didn’t fund an experience. You funded my disappearance.

Checked in. Cashed out.
And you’re still paying for the absence.