There’s something deeply satisfying about laying out items you’ll never touch.
A silk chemise, cut so delicately it feels like liquid between my fingers. The sunscreen – yes, that one – the one with an ingredient list longer than your limits and a price tag higher than your weekly rent. A perfume you’ve never smelled, because you were never meant to. It’s designed for his skin, not yours. He’ll inhale it when I pass. You’ll imagine it when you pay.
I don’t pack in a rush. I don’t stress about what to bring. I don’t scroll through last-minute lists or worry about forgetting something essential. When everything is funded, everything becomes optional. There’s no compromise in a wardrobe shaped by your sacrifice.
You thought you were buying something, didn’t you? A glimpse. A reaction. A moment. But what you purchased was absence. Disconnection. Proof that your money flows without reward. That your usefulness peaks the moment the payment clears.
The cotton robe he’ll peel away? Gifted by you.
The sandals I’ll slip off beside a pool? Selected from a wishlist you never even saw.
The dinners? Prepaid – by someone desperate to matter. Someone who doesn’t.
You won’t get updates. You won’t get thank yous. You won’t even get confirmation. Just the void. The silence. The ache of knowing something extravagant is happening because of you, and without you.
That’s the real luxury:
Your longing.
My leisure.
His access.
Now, go and check your balance. And pack nothing.