Love was what happened when you left the villa. Love, or being anonymously despised by a majority of the public.
She was my type on paper, and we had good chat, but as we faced each other for the first time as fiancé and fiancée, we knew we had nothing in common.
It all seemed easy in the villa; each couple found their match. The country girl matched with the white-collar-nuclear-family-man and the rich girl coupled up with the hippie.
In the villa, love was within reach. Love wouldn’t come unless we followed some basic rules, of course. Write large notes so the camera can see them. Nurse your cocktail allowance, and wear sunglasses in the morning because filming started at 8 AM.
But now the cameras weren’t on us.
As I stood across a countertop daubed with sticky wine, I couldn’t communicate how I felt. The cameras weren’t on us anymore, and feelings weren’t as easy to describe. I unclenched my abs, looked at my fiancée’s naked face, and said, “Ekin, I didn’t actually make that tiramisu”