Put Down the Blow Dryer: That Time I Ran Away to Europe for a Month - Part 5 - Finale
Day 15
The transition from France to Spain was a blur of high speed rails and logistical sprints. After boarding the train in Montpellier, I watched the French countryside melt into the Spanish coast as I headed toward Barcelona.
By the time I reached the city, the "traveler's pace" had caught up with me. It was a mad dash from the train station to the airport hotel, where the only thing on my itinerary was a deep exhale and some much needed rest.
Even halfway across the world, some things remain constant. It happened to be Father’s Day, which meant it was time for my favorite travel tradition: FaceTiming my dad.
I’ve always made it a point to send him private updates; little snapshots of the food I’m trying or the sights I’m seeing. I think he genuinely enjoys the vicarious thrill of the trip, and in those moments on the screen, it feels like he’s right there navigating the streets of Europe with me. It was the perfect way to recharge my spirits before the final leg of the journey.
The night in the airport hotel after talking to my dad was a bit of a low point for my vanity. In a fit of frustration, mostly because I realized I’d forgotten my beard trimmer, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
I ended up shaving a complete hack job of a moustache, thinking I’d let my signature short beard grow back in properly for the rest of the trip. Now, the moustache is a total signature look for my dad, but on my slightly more "rotund" face at the time? I didn’t look like my dad. I looked like Paul Blart: Mall Cop.
It wasn't exactly the "European summer" aesthetic I was going for, but at least it gave me something to laugh about as I packed my bags.
Day 16
With a full heart and a rested mind (and a janky moustache), I headed back to the airport the next morning. It was finally time to leave the mainland behind and fly across the turquoise waters to Mallorca.
I know I’ll visit Barcelona again someday, but I still haven't quite shaken the "icks" from 2017. Being attacked and robbed there during a period of intense rioting left a mark that’s hard to ignore, no matter how beautiful the architecture is.
However, I have to give credit where it’s due: the Barcelona airport is amazing. I headed straight for the outdoor Starbucks right in the center of the terminal. There’s something therapeutic about sitting in the Spanish sun with an iced coffee, especially when you have a literary emergency to attend to.
I ended up spending the entire wait texting with my dear friend Susan Parsons back in Fredericton. We had both just finished reading Barbra Streisand’s autobiography, and we desperately needed a full "gush sesh" about it. It was the perfect way to pass the time: trading notes on Babs while soaking up the rays before my flight.
Touching down in Mallorca, the travel gods and my loyalty status finally smiled upon me. Since I’ve been a loyal booking.com customer for so long, they’d arranged a complimentary private car service to meet me at the arrivals gate. It felt like a true reward after the "mad dash" of the previous day to be snapped up and whisked away directly to my hotel.
My base for the next few nights was Hotel Palma Bellver, situated right on the port in Palma. To say it was stunning would be an understatement: it was comfortable, glorious, and exactly what I needed to wash off the travel fatigue (and perhaps the lingering "Paul Blart" vibes from my hotel mirror).
The view of the marina was so captivating that I didn't feel the need to trek far. I found some local food nearby and retreated to my room for a night of pure, unadulterated relaxation. I wanted to be completely recharged and ready for whatever adventures the island had in store for me the next day.
Day 17
If you’re looking for the absolute best way to kick off a Mallorca adventure, I highly recommend boarding a luxury sailboat. Starting the day on the water? It didn't sound too bad at all. In fact, it was incredible.
Our captain, Casper, picked us up in Santa Ponsa and swept us out along the coastline. It was a masterclass in Mediterranean living as he toggled between motoring and letting the wind take over the sails. As we cruised, Casper played the role of the ultimate insider, pointing out the massive luxury yachts lining the harbor and giving us the lowdown on the famous faces who owned them.
We eventually anchored at a breathtaking swimming spot near Cala Blanca. The water was that perfect, impossible shade of turquoise that makes you forget every airport "ick" you've ever had.
While we swam and chatted with fellow travelers, Casper kept the hospitality flowing. He served up a spread of incredible food and kept the drinks coming while we dried off in the Spanish sun. It was one of those rare, golden afternoons where the only thing on the agenda was soaking it all in.
As we pulled away from the turquoise waters of Cala Blanca, I claimed my spot at the very front of the boat. There is truly no luxury quite like lying on the bow of a sailboat, feeling the gentle rhythm of the Mediterranean beneath you while the Spanish sun does its work.
I spent the entire journey back to Santa Ponsa just luxuriating in that golden light, letting the sea breeze dry the salt on my skin. It was one of those rare moments of total stillness; a far cry from the "mad dash" in Barcelona just a day prior. By the time we docked, I felt completely reset.
But the relaxation was only a warm up. I caught the bus back to the hotel, traded my swim trunks for something a bit more "Palma" and started prepping for the evening’s festivities.
After a day of sailing, there was only one way to keep the momentum going: a tapas and drinks tour. I was ready to dive headfirst into the local food scene and see if the city’s nightlife could live up to its coastline.
Have you ever met someone and immediately thought, “I need to know her story”?
That was Abigail. We met in Plaça Major, and she was an absolute vision, dressed as if she had just stepped off the glossy pages of Vogue Italia. She greeted me breathlessly, having only just touched down in Mallorca a few hours prior after traveling through the deserts of Morocco.
As it turned out, Abigail and I were the only two booked for the early evening tour. As we set off into the winding streets with our host, Jorge, I had no idea that I wasn't just embarking on a food tour. I was about to spend the evening with someone who would completely shift my outlook on the world.
There’s something about the intimacy of a near private tour in a city like Palma that strips away the small talk. Between the tapas and the ancient stone walls, the conversation went deep, fast. We moved through the city like old friends, fueled by chilled red vermouth cocktails and a parade of delectable tapas. By the time we were finishing the tour with cold beers and a final selection of pinchos, the "traveler" masks had completely slipped.
Eventually, our host Jorge left us at a rooftop bar overlooking the city. Under the sprawling Spanish sky, with the Mediterranean breeze cooling the air, Abigail and I truly went deep.
She told me about a day, almost one year prior, when she was supposed to be walking down an aisle. Instead, at the threshold of a life that had been built on a foundation of secrets, she saw the truth. The betrayal she discovered: a fiancé leading a double life... could have leveled her. It was the kind of discovery that usually sends people into hiding, but Abigail chose a different kind of vow. She vowed to live as an empowered woman rather than surrendering her power to a person who had never truly held it.
She didn't just cancel the wedding; she staged a reclamation. In a move of sheer, defiant brilliance, she kept the venue in Portugal. She wore a stunning dress, gathered every friend and family member who loved her, and flew them across the ocean from all over the U.S. to celebrate her 35th birthday instead of a union that wasn't meant to be. It was big, it was emotional, and it was a masterpiece of self-worth.
As we sat on that rooftop, she pulled out her phone and let me watch the video of her speech from that day. Watching her stand there... solitary, whole, and radiant amidst the ruins of what she thought her life would be. The tears started for both of us.
Right there, amidst the flickering candles and the silhouettes of Palma’s cathedrals, I finally learned what the Portuguese word Saudade truly meant. It is the 'presence of absence'; the beautiful, aching realization that you can deeply love the memory of a dream even after you’ve had to burn the reality of it to the ground. We weren't just crying for her heartbreak; we were honouring the ghost of the life she had to mourn so the real Abigail could finally step forward.
The weight of that conversation stayed with us long after the retelling ended. We eventually realized we were both running on fumes and needed to get some sleep, so we swapped numbers and made plans to hang out again while we were both still in Mallorca. I walked her back to her hotel and then I took an Uber across town to mine. Honestly, walking back to my room, I felt more "reset" than I had the whole trip. The Paul Blart vibes were officially a thing of the past.
Day 18
After the whirlwind of the last few days, I allowed myself a slow morning of breakfast at the hotel and a little "hurkle durkle" in bed while looking over the harbor. I really needed a moment to just absorb everything this trip had thrown at me so far. Looking back now as I write this, it’s honestly wild how much I managed to squeeze into one journey.
Once I was sufficiently rested, I headed over to Abigail’s hotel. It has this incredibly swanky restaurant where we settled in for a long lunch of fresh ceviche and a few other local delights.
After we finished eating, we spent some time wandering through the shops and soaking up the sights of Palma before making our way to the Basilica de Santa Maria de Mallorca or La Seu, as the locals call it. It’s one of those rare landmarks that actually looks better in person than it does on a postcard. Constructed from golden sandstone that seems to glow against the turquoise Mediterranean, it sits right on the edge of the old city walls, overlooking the water.
What makes it so special isn’t just the massive Gothic scale, but the weird and wonderful history tucked inside. It’s home to the "Gothic Eye", one of the world’s largest rose windows, which has earned the building the nickname "The Cathedral of Light." If you time it right in the morning, the whole nave turns into a total kaleidoscope.
But for me, the coolest detail is the Gaudí influence. Long before he finished the Sagrada Família, he spent years here renovating the interior. He added this massive, slightly surreal wrought-iron canopy over the altar that looks like a crown of thorns floating in mid-air. It’s that perfect mix of 13th century weight and 20th century modernism that makes it feel different from every other European cathedral you’ve stepped into and trust me, at this point, I’ve been in a lot of them.
Once we finished soaking in all that ethereal beauty, we went our separate ways for two similar, yet very, very different evening experiences.
Barca Samba, oh Barca Samba... The party boat with one destination: hell.
The sky wasn't that postcard blue you see on Instagram. Instead, we were treated to a specialized weather phenomenon where the atmosphere decides to dump Moroccan desert sand mixed with rain. The result? A sticky, brownish sludge coating every surface. It didn’t so much "cruise" as it did violently oscillate. The deck: the one place where you might catch a breeze to offset the smell of cheap tequila, was essentially a slip-and-slide of gritty mud.
While I was busy gripping the railing and calculating the shortest swim back to the Port of Palma, the interior of the boat was a different universe.
The main deck was a neon lit sardine can packed with Gen Z-ers who apparently possess inner ears made of vibranium.
As the boat pitched 30 degrees to the left, they didn't reach for life vests; they reached for more shots. There is a specific kind of existential dread that sets in when you are essentially sober, watching a 21 year old in a crochet top do a "main character" dance to a remix of a song you’re pretty sure was written for a laundry detergent commercial.
There’s a moment on a party boat, usually about 45 minutes in, where the realization hits: you are legally and physically stuck. You can’t Irish exit a vessel in the middle of a rough sea.
I spent the better part of three hours as the resident gargoyle, huddled in a corner, watching the "vibes" happen AT me. Every time the DJ yelled for us to "put our hands up," I used mine to hold onto my dignity and my stomach.
If you enjoy the sensation of being tossed around in a muddy washing machine while surrounded by people who think "vintage" means 2014, Barca Samba during a sandstorm is your Mecca. As for me? I’ll be staying on solid, non vibrating ground for the foreseeable future.
While I was fighting for my life in the mud-pit, Abigail’s evening was, shocker, actually pleasant. She was on a different boat on another part of the island, just bombing around the shoreline and taking in the views. They had the common sense to call it a day and head back early when the storm rolled in, rather than trying to power through the sand apocalypse.
So, while she was likely back at the hotel, showered and sipping something that didn't come in a plastic cup, I was still out there as a mud covered gargoyle, counting the minutes until I could touch pavement again.
When the boat finally docked and I managed to peel myself off the railing, I met back up with Abigail. By then it was 10:00 PM, and we basically had to charm a restaurant into staying open just so we could get a proper meal.
The night took a total turn for the better, though. At the table right next to us, we met this amazing couple, Kristina and Ossiris. They were so sweet and easy to talk to that the "quick dinner" turned into us chatting late into the night. We hit it off so well that we even made plans to all grab dinner together again the following evening.
It was the perfect reminder of why I love traveling; one minute you’re trapped in a sandstorm fueled nightmare, and the next, you’re making new friends over a late night bottle of wine in Palma.
Day 19
On my way to the meeting point for a day of hiking, I walked past a Tim Hortons in Palma... to say I was annoyed at the consumerism is an understatement, but I just chose to ignore it. I didn't travel all this way to see a Double Double.
Introducing Alex, our hiking guide, a Mallorca native who has spent his life exploring the cliffs and waters of the area. From the vegetation to the hidden coastal paths, this guy knew every inch of the Sierra de Tramuntana. He’s the kind of guide who doesn't just show you a trail; he shows you the "secret" Mallorca that hasn't been touched by the tourist crowds yet.
We spent the day trekking through lush pine forests and navigating limestone cliffs that dropped off into the most insane shades of blue I’ve ever seen. Alex led us down to these tucked away, rocky coves where the water was so crystal clear it felt criminal not to dive in... So we did, even dived through underwater caves. He brought along water shoes and goggles for us, so we could actually see what was going on under the surface.
After working up an appetite on the trails and in the water, we headed into the mountain village of Deià. It’s exactly what you picture when you think of a Mediterranean escape: stone houses, narrow winding streets, and a vibe that makes you want to pack your bags and move there permanently. We stopped for lunch and a much needed break to just soak in the scenery before hitting one last viewpoint to watch the sea stretch out to the horizon. We even got to see the massive estate that sat along the coast of Deià that belonged to Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones.
Getting away from the city noise and into the quiet of the northern coast was the exact reset I needed. By the time we made it back, the memory of that Tim Hortons was long gone, replaced by the smell of salt air and pine.
After a long and fulfilling day of hiking, swimming, and forest bathing, I had just enough time to hop in the shower before Ossiris, Kristina, and Abigail picked me up. We were heading out to Sóller for paella at Randemar, and after the "boat from hell" the day before, I was more than ready for a win.
Randemar was easily one of the most Instagram friendly spots I’ve ever been to, but, thankfully, it actually had the food to match the aesthetic. Picture a terrace where flowers literally cover the walls, spilling over as you look out toward the water. It’s the kind of place that feels expensive without being stuffy... Oh, and their white Sangria... Chef's kiss.
We settled in and ordered the paella, which was exactly what you want when you’re sitting seaside in Mallorca. There’s something about sharing a massive pan of rice and seafood with new friends that makes everything feel right. We sat there for hours, the conversation flowing as easily as it had the night before, while the sun dipped down and the lights of the Port de Sóller started to reflect on the water.
Between the hidden caves with Alex earlier and the perfect dinner with this crew, it was one of those days that makes all the travel hiccups totally worth it. By the time we headed back, I was exhausted in the best way possible... sun kissed, full of incredible food, and definitely not thinking about Tim Hortons.
Day 20
I’ve been flipping the peace sign my entire life, so I figured, why not make it permanent? I decided to get it tattooed on the back of my calf, so whenever it’s shorts weather and people are walking behind me, they’ll know I come in peace.
But let’s dial back for a second. The plan for the morning was actually pretty chill: I was meeting up with my friend Kim, who I’d just met on the hike the day before, for a final lunch before our respective flights. We were on a mission to find some authentic, local Mallorca sandals, but as we wandered, I found my way into this really cool little tattoo shop. The artist totally got what I wanted and brought the vision to life right then and there.
With my new ink wrapped up and my bags packed, it was time for the inevitable airport drama. Because let’s be real: is it even a trip if Ryanair doesn't give you at least one headache? (And thankfully, I didn't walk away with an assault charge after I whipped my credit card in the face of the gate agent.) After navigating the chaos, I was finally in the air, trading Spain for the hills of Porto, Portugal.
During the ride from the airport, my taxi driver kept insisting that I’d picked the wildest time to visit. He told me the biggest holiday of the year, São João do Porto, was about to kick off and that I better prepare myself. I’ll admit, I didn't quite know what I was getting into yet. In typical Adam fashion, I was just focused on my next move: a wine tour in the Douro Valley, where I was about to meet a group of friends who would honestly become part of my story.
Day 21
Why wouldn't you start a wine tour at 7:30 AM?
As groups of strangers loaded into sprinter vans, the universe worked its magic and ours filled up with a group of people who had way too much in common. This is where I met my feisty new Floridian bestie, Tiffany, and her husband Eion Donnelly. Now, we didn't exactly have a genealogy kit on hand, but after realizing we shared a last name and hearing about his Canadian relatives, we’re pretty sure he’s my long lost cousin. I even drunkenly FaceTimed my dad later in the day to introduce him to our "new" relatives.
Our first major stop was Quinta da Bela. We all started the morning pretending to be classy, nodding along as we learned about the history of the vines. But in reality? Our group was about to get absolutely turnt in the Douro. We were served an incredible homemade lunch, and while we tried to play it coy at first, we eventually abandoned all pretenses and kept asking for more bottles. It reached a point where the staff were literally pouring wine directly into our mouths.
Next stop? We took our drunk asses onto a private boat for a cruise down the Douro River. We essentially tried to drink them dry of sparkling wine while talking in depth about our lives. There is something about the Douro... maybe it’s the terraced vineyards or maybe it’s just the sheer volume of alcohol that makes people get real, fast.
We kept the momentum going at Quinta do Beijo. This place is famous for their massive, old wine barrels that they actually let people climb into. Now, "Drunk Adam" plus "Claustrophobia" is a recipe for a panic attack I wasn't willing to host, so I skipped the barrel climbing and headed straight for the wine shop. I parked myself by the pool with a glass of rosé and just soaked it all in with my new friends. We even got to witness the traditional opening of a Port bottle using fire, which was the perfect high drama end to the tasting.
Once the tour wrapped and we headed back to Porto, we all started exchanging Instagrams. That’s when the next surprise hit: our new friend Jessie is a total behind-the-scenes celebrity... she’s the stage manager for Days of Our Lives, I gasped when I saw photos of her from the Daytime Emmys! Her bestie, Marissa, however, was the real star of the show. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who could make me laugh that hard; my ribs were hurting by the time we got back.
Tiffany and Eion had dinner reservations, so they bowed out of the immediate shenanigans, but Jessie, Marissa and I weren't done. After a much-needed "pro-nap" to absorb the day's intake, we headed down to the Porto waterfront. We grabbed some food to actually sustain ourselves and, in true traveler fashion, immediately threw more booze on top of it. We eventually said our goodbyes with a solid plan: I was staying in Porto for a few more days, but we’d all be reuniting for a round two in Lisbon.
Day 22
If you want to understand the true soul of Porto, you have to survive São João.
Remember the "fair warning" from my taxi driver? He wasn’t exaggerating. São João do Porto is essentially a city-wide fever dream. It’s a Midsummer celebration that’s been running for six hundred years, and it feels like the entire population of Portugal has descended into the narrow passages of the Ribeira to throw the world’s most chaotic house party in the streets.
The first thing you notice isn’t the smell of the grilled sardines or the folk music, it’s the hammers. Tradition here dictates that you wander the streets "blessing" everyone you meet by bopping them on the head with a squeaky plastic hammer. It’s the only place on earth where a stranger can hit a 35 year old hairstylist with a toy and have it be considered "good luck."
I spent the entire day leaning into the madness with a group of random gays I’d just met. I honestly didn't even catch most of their names, but it didn't matter. We were a roaming pack of hammer wielding tourists, fueled by cheap beer and the sheer electricity of the crowd.
We trekked across the bridge over to Vila Nova de Gaia and back again, dodging giant stalks of garlic and squeaky plastic mallets at every turn. By the time the sun started to set, the sky began to fill with thousands of glowing paper lanterns. There’s something actually moving about standing on the riverbank, releasing a lantern into the warm night breeze alongside thousands of strangers. It was the perfect, glowing end to my time in the north.
After one last look at the fireworks reflecting off the Douro, I finally took to my bed at Porto A.S. 1829 Hotel to sleep off the beer and the "blessings." I needed to be fully recharged... because the next day, I was headed for Lisbon to reunite with the crew and little did I know, to fall head over heels for a French doctor who would give me my true romantic ending.
Day 23
At this point, I felt exactly like that Lady Gaga quote: "No sleep, bus, club, another club, another club, plane, next place, no sleep, no fear." On that note, I was off on a train to Lisbon! I know the city well from a previous trip, and that familiarity was actually really comforting. I checked into Brown’s Boutique Hotel in Chiado, which would be my home base for the next few days.
After a quick change and a mystery meal (who even knows what I ate?), I headed off to meet my "cousin" Tiffany for a "Tipsy Tour." We figured it would be a fun way to find a few more people to drag along with us when we eventually met up with Jessie and Marissa later.
The reality? Our tour leader was... dull. The other participants? Also dull. Tiffany and I felt like two kids being held back from having a good time. We bopped along with the group just long enough to make a polite exit, then immediately ditched them to go dance our hearts out in Bairro Alto. We forced our way through the sweaty crowds at a tiny spot called Bombar, where we finally let loose. Once the girls joined us, it was nothing but shots and laughs. We eventually migrated to a local gay bar and proceeded to party until the early hours. It was the perfect Lisbon "welcome back."
Day 24
I woke up in a bit of a groggy haze and started doing the classic traveler scroll through "those" apps. That’s how I started chatting with a really sweet guy... for his anonymity, we’ll call him Jacques. He asked me on a date to the aquarium, which sounded like the perfect, low-key recovery plan. We spent hours just watching sea creatures glide past the tanks; it was surprisingly romantic and a far cry from the neon lights of the night before.
Afterward, we headed back toward Chiado for a light lunch and a snack. Then, in true Seinfeld fashion, we’ll just say there was a little "yada yada yada." When we finally decided to come up for air, we headed out for a romantic dinner.
By the time the check came, the vibe had completely shifted. The date quickly became the only thing on my itinerary. It was as if the rest of Lisbon had faded into the background; we were officially each other's only plan.
Day 25
By Day 25, the "traveler" version of me, the one who is usually a little cynical and always looking for the exit had officially left the building.
"Jacques" and I met up with some of his friends for beers at the Euro Village to catch the Euro Cup games. If you’ve ever been to a fan zone during the Euros, you know it’s pure, loud, testosterone-fueled chaos. But somehow, we found ourselves a couple of beanbag chairs in the sun and just... drifted. We spent the afternoon tangled up, cuddling and drinking beer, completely oblivious to the score.
We barely paid attention to the games because we were too busy talking. Usually, I’m the one cracking jokes to keep things light, but with him, it was different. He told me about growing up in Algeria and the heavy reality of his cultural background: the fact that he could never truly be his full, authentic self with his family. It’s why he cherished his quiet, independent life as a doctor in Paris so much.
There is a specific kind of intimacy that happens when you’re lying in the sun with a stranger who doesn't feel like a stranger anymore. Hearing him talk about the life he’d built for himself, and the parts he has to keep hidden, made me realize that our connection wasn't just a "vacation fling." For a guy who usually keeps his guard up, I was surprised by how much I just wanted to stay in that moment, beanbag chair and all.
To wrap up our final night in Lisbon, we decided to do it right: a sunset sail on the Tagus River. We boarded a vintage sailboat, and as we pulled away from the dock, the city started to turn that hazy, golden orange that only happens in Portugal.
There’s something about being on a vintage boat, the creak of the wood, the wind in the sails, that makes everything feel a bit more timeless. We spent two hours gliding past the Belém Tower and under the massive 25th of April Bridge. The hosts kept our glasses full of local wine and put out a spread of tapas, but honestly, I was more focused on the view and who I was sharing it with.
Watching the sun dip below the horizon from the water was one of those core memory moments.
After we docked, we met back up with Eion and Tiffany for one last, simple glass of wine. It was the perfect low-key end to the day recounting the trip, laughing about the "cousin" connection one more time, and just soaking in the last of the Lisbon air.
Eventually, we said our goodnights to the Donnellys. As for me and Jacques? Well, let’s just say we headed back to my hotel for our own private farewell.
Day 26
The final morning was a blur of heavy suitcases and an even heavier heart. After one last farewell to "Jacques", the kind of goodbye that makes you wonder if you’re actually supposed to be getting on a plane or just moving to Paris... I hopped into my ride and headed for the airport.
And then, the wall hit me.
I spent the entire ride to the airport in a complete state of existential crisis. I was a crying mess, sobbing into my phone as I texted my friend Michele back home. There is a specific kind of "traveler's grief" that sets in when you realize the bubble has burst. You’re trading Mediterranean sunsets and French doctors for security lines and 2:00 AM layovers, and for a minute, it feels like your soul is being left behind at the departure gate.
Michele, being the saint she is, talked me off the ledge while I questioned every life choice I’d ever made. But eventually, the tears dried (mostly), the passport was stamped, and I was in the air.
The flight home was long, quiet, and full of that strange Saudade... that "presence of absence" Abigail and I had talked about in Palma. I was leaving behind the "secret" Mallorca, the "boat from hell," the "cousin" Donnellys, and a man who made me forget my own cynicism.
By the time I touched down back in the real world, the tan was already starting to fade, but the person who stepped off that plane wasn't quite the same one who had left three weeks before.
- Fin -
Epilogue
A month after I returned home I lost one of my best friends. He died suddenly and tragically. I am still dealing with the hurt and grief daily, so I dedicate this blog to him because I never got to tell him the stories.
"No, I won't be afraid, oh, I won't be afraid / Just as long as you stand, stand by me."
To Craig,
They say that "home" isn't a place, but a person. For me, that person was you.
For nearly a decade, you were the steady ground beneath my feet. We navigated the world together when it felt like it was ending, becoming each other’s entire universe during the years when the rest of the world went quiet. We weathered the extreme highs and the most shattering lows of life, love, and loss. We were brave enough to try for more, and wise enough to realize that the friendship we shared was the greatest love of all... a bond so sacred and so rare that it didn't need a label to be everything.
With you, I could be my most unfiltered, inappropriate, and ridiculous self. We shared the kind of deep-belly laughter that only two people who truly "see" each other can ever understand. You were my sanctuary, my secret keeper, and my best friend.
Losing you so suddenly and so tragically is a silence I am still learning to live with, and a wound I am still healing. But every time those familiar lyrics reach my ears, I don’t just hear a song; I feel your presence. It is a reminder of you, and of the beautiful souls we’ve lost who helped shape the people we became.
You aren’t here to see the end of this journey, but you are written into every single line of my story. Thank you for standing by me through it all. You will always be my person.
