I can still feel it - the warm LA air brushing against my skin, the scent of salt and sun lingering as i strolled barefoot along the Venice boardwalk. The city pulsed around me, a wild electric heartbeat, and I let myself fall in step with it, let it sweep me into its rhythm. that trip wasn’t just an escape; it was a love story, a slow, burning romance between me and the life I once craved.

The LINE hotel was my lover’s embrace - soft sheets that tangled around my legs (mainly cuz I couldn’t figure out the AC; it was sometimes too cool, but sometimes too hot) windows that framed the skyline like a portrait made just for me. At night, I’d press my palm against the cool glass, watching the city lights flicker like quiet confessions and I’d whisper back, wondering if people can hear me or see me from below (I later realized they could), telling the moon my secrets. It felt like a dance, jus the two of us, locked in a moment that didn’t need to end.

Mornings were lazy, indulgent. I let myself linger in the local coffee shops, savoring pastries that melted on my tongue like stolen kisses. I let the ocean flirt with my feet, let the wind tangle my hair into something wilder, freer. Every step was a memory in the making, every glance a reminder that this - this feeling, this hunger for adventure - was still inside me.

Now, turning 40, I don’t just want to relive that memory - I want to chase it, capture it, breathe it in again and again. I want to find myself wrapped in moonlight in a different city, let the night hold me close, let the stars listen as I dream. Because if LA taught me anything, it’s that I’m not done writing chapters of my life’s love story. Not even close.

…

If you catch me at a coffee shop, ask me me, “what happened at the LINE?” maybe I’ll just tell you the secrets shared by the moon, and I.