The visa run, the goodbye, the beginning

We didn’t kiss at the bus station—not the kind you’d expect, anyway. No dramatic dip, no tongues tangling under fluorescent lights. Just a kiss of hands. Mine first. Hers next.

It was something out of a Merchant Ivory film, if Merchant Ivory had ever set foot in Đà Lạt. Regal. Tender. Ridiculous, maybe—but it was ours.

We were laughing the way people laug…