There are moments that etch themselves into memory—not because they were loud or grand, but because they were quiet, golden, and perfect. My last morning in Lombok gifted me one of those moments.
I woke early, the kind of early that feels like a secret, and rode my scooter down to the beach. The beach was hushed, save for the gentle lapping of waves, the occasional dog wandering the beach looking for its next meal and the distant clinking of fishing boats preparing for the day. Kuta Beach, usually alive with surfers and sunseekers, was serene—almost reverent—as if it too was pausing to watch the sun rise.
The sky unfolded like a painting in motion. Hues of amber, rose, and indigo danced across the horizon, reflecting off the wet sand in rippling patterns left behind by the receding tide. Small boats bobbed gently in the shallows, silhouetted against the fiery glow. In the distance, the rugged hills stood like quiet guardians, their outlines softened by the morning mist.
It was the kind of sunrise that doesn’t ask for attention—it simply holds it. I stood there, barefoot and quiet, letting the warmth of the moment sink in. No filters, no edits—just nature at its most poetic.
Leaving Lombok was bittersweet. But this sunrise felt like a gentle goodbye, a reminder that beauty often lies in the transitions—in the in-betweens of arrival and departure. And as I turned to leave, the colours lingered behind me, like a promise that I’d return.
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