I’m 35,000 feet above the ground, chasing a dream I’ve held close for years. A dream I prayed for, worked for, and now, finally, have within reach. But as the plane hums steadily and the clouds drift beneath me, all I can think about is him—the man I left behind.
It’s only 18 months, I tell myself. Just 500 plus days. A temporary separation in the grand timeline of our lives. But my chest tightens at the thought of every morning he wakes up without me, of every night he eats dinner alone. I try to remind myself that we’ll be okay. That love stretches, not breaks. But logic doesn’t quiet the ache that sits heavy in my bones.
He never asked me to stay. Not once. Not when I first told him about this plan. Not when we counted down the days. Not even this morning, when he held me longer than ever before, his silence saying all the things his words never could. He just told me to go. To chase the dream I had longed for. “Your success is my success,” he said, his voice steady, even as his hands trembled against my back.
And that’s what breaks me the most. Because his love isn’t the kind that cages—it’s the kind that lets you fly, even when it hurts him to watch you go.
The truth is, I always imagined this moment as a victory. That I’d be filled with nothing but excitement, pride, and joy. But sitting here, staring blankly at my untouched in-flight meal, all I feel is the weight of what I’ve left behind.
I’ve wanted this for as long as I can remember. But now, as I cross oceans and time zones, I wonder if anyone ever prepares you for the kind of love that stays behind. The kind that doesn’t hold you back but breaks quietly in your absence.
I hope, with everything in me, that this journey leads to something greater—not just for me, but for us. Because no matter how far this dream takes me, he’ll always be the dream I’m coming back to.
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