I’m on another journey. Another road, another destination, another opportunity to see something new. I’ve done this before. I’ve travelled alone, explored unfamiliar places, enjoyed the freedom of making my own decisions, and discovered that I can be perfectly happy in my own company. For a long time, I thought that was enough. And in many ways, it was.
But this time feels different.
As I drive along, watching the scenery change and the autumn colours stretch across the landscape, I find myself thinking about how much nicer it would be to have someone beside me. Not because I’m lonely or incapable of enjoying the experience on my own, but because there are moments that seem to ask to be shared. A beautiful view that makes you turn to the passenger seat. A funny sign along the highway that would make you laugh. A little restaurant discovered by accident, where the food might be terrible but the memory would be wonderful because we found it together.
And then I remember that you’re not here.
It’s a strange feeling, wanting something you don’t have while still appreciating everything you do. I can enjoy the drive, feel the warmth of the sun, admire the colours of the trees, and be grateful for the freedom to travel wherever I choose. None of that disappears simply because someone is missing. Yet there is a difference between experiencing something and sharing it with someone who matters to you.
I used to think independence meant being able to do everything alone. After all, I’ve spent years learning to rely on myself. I can make plans, change direction, solve problems, and find happiness without needing someone else to provide it for me. There is real freedom in that. But I’ve come to realize that being independent doesn’t mean you stop wanting companionship. It doesn’t mean you no longer want someone to reach for your hand, listen to your thoughts, or sit beside you in comfortable silence.
Maybe real independence is knowing you can enjoy your own life while still making room for someone to become part of it.
And that’s what feels different about this journey. I’m not looking for someone to complete me or rescue me from being alone. My life is already full of experiences, lessons, adventures, and things I’m grateful for. But I find myself wanting to create memories with someone. I want to hear another person’s perspective, discover what makes them laugh, and see a familiar place differently through their eyes. I want the conversations that wander from one subject to another, the unexpected detours, and the quiet moments when neither of us needs to say anything at all.
I want the ordinary things, too. Sharing a meal after a long day. Deciding together where to go next. Looking at the same sunset and knowing that, years later, we might remember that exact moment. Perhaps the memory won’t be extraordinary to anyone else, but it will belong to us.
There is something vulnerable about admitting this. When you’ve spent a long time learning how to stand on your own, wanting someone beside you can feel like opening a door you worked hard to close. You know what it means to build a life around yourself, to find your footing again, and to appreciate the peace that comes with not depending on another person for your happiness. You don’t want to lose that peace. But you also don’t want to confuse being content alone with no longer needing connection.
The two can exist together.
I can be grateful for where I am and still hope for what might come. I can enjoy this journey on my own and imagine how wonderful it might be to share the next one. I can appreciate the present without pretending there isn’t something or someone I wish were part of it.
Perhaps that is what this trip is teaching me. Not that travelling alone is somehow less meaningful, but that my idea of a meaningful life has changed. I’m no longer interested only in the places I can visit or the things I can accomplish. I’m becoming more interested in the moments I can share, the connection I can build, and the person with whom I might look back on all these experiences someday.
I don’t know when or what our journey together will look like. I can’t plan it the way I plan a road trip. There is no map, no guaranteed destination. All I can do is keep living, keep exploring, and remain open to the possibility that life has something wonderful waiting for us.
So I’ll continue this journey. I’ll stop when something catches my eye, enjoy the autumn scenery, find a place to eat, and watch the sun set at the end of another day. I’ll make the most of my last journey alone
But every now and then, I know I’ll see something beautiful and wish you were sitting beside me.
Not because this moment isn’t enough.
But because I can imagine how much sweeter it might be if I could turn to you, smile, and say, “Look at that.”
And one day, you will be here.
Until then, I’ll keep counting the days.