A kiss, a scooter, and a sleeper bus

We didn’t fall asleep in each other’s arms. Not that night.

After our quiet, tentative, fully clothed kiss—one of those time-pausing, breath-sharing kisses where you learn the shape of someone’s presence more than their lips—we slowly peeled ourselves off the bed and stepped back into the night.

She had offered to drive me to the bus station, and I was grateful. Because I was on an adventure—the kind of absurd bureaucratic ritual expats know too well: the dreaded visa run. Mine was to the Cambodian border at Mộc Bài, so I could renew my 90-day tourist visa.

She offered me her spare helmet. I climbed on behind her. It was chilly and dark, and we rode close. Not for romance—officially—but for physics. The balance of the scooter demanded it, and her hips, already etched into my memory, were now also in my hands.

We giggled like teenagers as we pulled up at the Đà Lạt bus station. It was chaos. The sleeper bus—a fluorescent, fibreglass cocoon of promise and discomfort—stood waiting like a shark with reclining teeth. We stood awkwardly for a moment. This didn’t feel like a goodbye. Not yet.

So I did something gallant and ridiculous. I took her hand in mine and kissed it—regally, theatrically—like some long-lost minor aristocrat. She burst out laughing, then did the same to me. We were ridiculous together. And that, somehow, made it even more real.

I climbed aboard, ducking under the low-slung ceiling, limbs already protesting. She waved. I waved. We smiled like the sun was burning in and through us.

And then… Zalo. That ever-faithful Vietnamese messenger app. We texted non-stop for hours as the bus rattled and bounced and groaned its way down the mountain. I could barely stretch out, let alone sleep. But I didn’t care.

Because somewhere behind me, still glowing in the night of Đà Lạt, was a woman who had just kissed me. And meant it.