Running

My round-the-world plan, in theory, went like this: Asia first — cherry blossoms in Japan — then Southeast Asia ahead of the monsoon, then into Europe in May to rendezvous with Vivi in Italy, where she'd staked her entire annual leave on Amalfi. A meticulously designed route. My first, and only, post-employment deliverable.

I lasted six days in Tokyo.

The cherry blossoms bloomed dutifully. The temples were quiet in a professional capacity. Everything was beyond criticism. I took a great many photos and posted them to the family group chat my mother had left — nobody replied, I knew nobody would reply, and I posted every day anyway, dropping stones down a well, needing to drop them whether or not the water answered.

On the sixth morning I sat by the Kamo River — no, wait, that's Kyoto. You see the problem: I can't even keep my own itinerary straight anymore. On the sixth morning I sat by some river, watching the water, and understood something with total clarity:

I didn't want to be here.

Not disliked it. Didn't want to be here. My body was in Tokyo; some other part of me was not. The sensation was extremely specific: like sitting in a conference room with one unread urgent Slack message — you hear nothing anyone says, your whole mind is that little red dot.

My little red dot was nine thousand kilometers to the northwest.

Things with Lucas were unchanged: asynchronous, restrained, neither of us crossing the line. He knew I'd quit; he'd said one word — "brave." He knew I was traveling; he'd said "see Mount Fuji for me." He had not said come. Christmas — his "you come," not-a-question — I had deflected with "just quit, too much to sort out." I'd regretted it all winter. But two people this good at holding position will each wait forever for the other to retransmit first.

Day seven, I looked up Tokyo–Amsterdam on the airline app.

Looked at it for three days.

Day ten, I convened a meeting with myself. Minutes as follows: the undersigned is unemployed, carries no immigration constraints, and answers to no one; the undersigned's itinerary is the undersigned's to modify; a detour to the Netherlands to see a friend is perfectly reasonable and does not constitute anything.

Motion carried unanimously. Heart pounding like I'd just approved a coup.

I didn't tell him. I wanted it to be a surprise — which is not like me, not remotely; I'm the woman who pre-aligns surprise parties with the birthday person's expectations. But love apparently ships with root access, and it had quietly rewritten all my system settings.

The plane touched down at Schiphol in the rain. In arrivals, I sent him a message:

"Guess where I am."

And I stood there, watching the screen, waiting for the three little dots.

One minute. Five minutes. Half an hour.

The rain kept falling.

I rerouted a continent, told no one, flew nine thousand kilometers — all to send four words.

Only after sending did it occur to me: a surprise takes two people. One to spring it. One to be glad.