I bought the villa.
Signed the papers, wired the money, did the champagne thing. Smiled like it meant something.
And it did—at least for a minute.
But now I’m here, in it, surrounded by dust and boxes and a sea view you’d kill for… and somehow, I’ve never felt more detached from my own life.
I’m physically here.
But my head? Frankfurt. Slack messages. Missed calls. That one invoice I forgot to chase. And meanwhile—meanwhile—my partner’s trying to tell me something about school uniforms or the bathroom tap leaking and I’m nodding, pretending I’m present when I’m not even in the room.
There’s a kind of guilt that doesn’t announce itself. It just sits quietly in the corners. Like when your kid walks into the room and instinctively lowers their voice because they assume you’re on a call.
Or when you notice the little twitch in your partner’s smile when you say, “Just give me five more minutes.”
You start asking yourself questions at weird times.
Like when I was screwing a shelf into the wall and suddenly thought—am I building a home or just a better hiding place?
Everyone said this would be the dream. “You’re giving your family paradise!”
Yeah, well, I also gave them an emotionally fried ghost who’s half-married to his inbox and hasn’t slept properly in three months.
I used to think the hard part would be the logistics. The lawyers. The money. The smoking.
But the hard part is the human part. The ordinary. Showing up at dinner and not checking my phone. Hearing—not just listening to—the story about the dog we don’t have that our kid insists is real. Being there for the daily mess, not just the big decisions.
Ibiza is still stunning, by the way. It’s offensively beautiful. That’s part of the problem.
When everything looks like a screensaver, it’s easy to think you’ve made it. But beauty doesn’t fix disconnection. It just hides it behind prettier wallpaper.
Some nights I lie awake staring at the ceiling fan and wonder how many tiny moments I’ve missed. Not big, dramatic things. The small stuff. Eye rolls. Inside jokes. Silences that meant something.
And I can feel them starting to adjust around me. Like I’m a piece of furniture they’re learning to walk around. Functional. Always there. Never fully in the room.
I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do with the feeling.
Because no one tells you that building the life you thought you wanted can cost you the one you already had.
I’ve still got time. I think. I hope.
But I need to start showing up.
Fully. Flawed. Present. Even if I miss a bloody Zoom call.