The sleeper bus and the unsleeping heart

You didn’t stay the night—not because we didn’t want to, but because life has its own choreography, and that night it called for movement.

We stood there by the bus—me, awkward and lanky, clutching my little bag like a boy off to boarding school; you, elegant and grounded, helmet under your arm and that playful tilt to your mouth that always makes me wonder if you’ve already won some secret bet.

It was our first parting, but not a goodbye. Not really.

We kissed each other’s hands.

Not in some Instagrammable way, but like old souls might—gently, reverently. I kissed yours like a gentleman who still believed in courtship. You kissed mine like someone who saw past the manners and into the man.

The bus wheezed and rumbled like a reluctant chaperone. I clambered aboard, all elbows and knees, wedging myself into a sleeper pod clearly built for smaller bodies and smaller dreams.

And even though I was surrounded by strangers and diesel fumes and the faint pong of durian from someone’s snacks, I couldn’t stop smiling.

Because of you.

Because of us.

You messaged me on Zalo before the bus had even left the station.

Are you comfy?

No. Tiny bed. Back hurts. Miss you already.

Haha. Me too. Sleep well, if you can.

I didn’t sleep.

But I didn’t care.

I had your words lighting up my screen like fireflies in a jar, and the memory of your laugh tucked like a secret under my ribs.

People talk about fireworks.

But this?

This was the quiet warmth of coals that never go out.

And somewhere between Da Lat and Saigon, between longing and laughter, I realised: I wasn’t just on a visa run.

I was falling in love—with the woman who’d kissed my hand like it mattered, and given me something I thought I’d stopped believing in.

A beginning.