There was a time when I valued the integrity of love and that was the furthest I traveled away from home. I boarded a plane to Singapore, 1, 486 miles from home, to meet the boy who once stole kisses from me.
It’s funny how Singapore has that power over me two years after. Every time I revisit that place in my head I am reminded of how soft his lips were and how his hand perfectly nestled on the small of my back.
It was the first time I have ever gone abroad. I am a coward, you see, but the boy was persistent. He knows I am terrified of flying but that did not stop him from subtly injecting travel in our everyday conversation. You have to see this place, he said, it’s magical. He then flashed his crooked smile at me, taunting me to say yes. How can you not when there’s a lovely boy waiting for you?
And so I flew. I left my job and all sense of security at home and backpacked Asia like it was the right thing to do. We were happy for the most part of it. Then we weren’t. I went home to continue where I left off and so did he.
Sometimes I still get that urge to go back, to once again feel the rush of boarding a plane to a foreign land where nobody knows of my flaws and romantic distasters but I am a coward. Maybe next year. Maybe.
Written for The Daily Post.