The Holiday: When Everyone Leaves and the Ghosts of Suncream Remain

The Sudden Silence of Sun-Drained Rooms

Most of these shots happened in a breath—stolen between the slamming of doors and the distant shrieks of kids rediscovering waves. The herd had migrated to the beach, and I was alone, suddenly hyper-aware of the house’s empty buzz. It felt like stumbling onto a crime scene where the culprit was fun: overturned sunglasses, a single flip-flop abandoned mid-escape, a towel crumpled like a fallen soldier. The “instant nostalgia” app on my phone had been working overtime on the kids’ sandy grins, but now? Now the place hummed with the quiet of a ghost ship.

A Tour Through the Aftermath

I played archaeologist, documenting the relics of hurried departure. Half-empty coffee cups, a paperback splayed face-down (a literary casualty), a tube of suncream oozing its last breath. Each shot linked to the next—a trail of breadcrumbs made of mismatched pool toys and melted ice cubes. Not morbid, just… curious. Like if a zombie apocalypse had hit, but the zombies were just really committed to catching the best waves.

Peace, But With a Side of Existential Dread

For a moment, I relished the stillness. Then the metaphor hit: This is what it’ll feel like when they’ve all grown up. The house, once a riot of damp swimsuits and snack demands, now just a shell echoing with remember when. I took the last photo—a lone chair in angled sunlight—and laughed at myself. Nothing like a holiday to remind you that time’s a thief. Then I grabbed a beer and went to find the others. Because frankly, the apocalypse can wait.