People We Meet on Vacation

I don't think I knew I was lonely until I met you.

I still have a lot to figure out, but the one thing I know is, wherever you are, that’s where I belong. I’ll never belong anywhere like I belong with you.

It hurts to want it all, so many things that can't coexist within the same life.

But most of us are too scared to even ask what we want, in case we can't have it.

Sometimes it feels like I didn't even exist before that. Like you invented me.

I love him so much. I love him more than I did yesterday, and I already know tomorrow I'll love him even more, because every piece of him he gives me is another to fall in love with.

I wish I could bottle this moment and wear it as a perfume. It would always be with me. Everywhere I went, he’d be there too, and so I’d always feel like myself.

I'm on vacation. Vacations always end. It's the very fact that it's finite that makes traveling special. You could move to any one of those destinations you loved in small doses, and it wouldn't be the spellbinding, life-altering seven days you spend there as a guest, letting a place into your heart fully, letting it change you.

Maybe things can always get better between people who want to do a good job loving each other. Maybe that’s all it takes.

It’s fascinating. How so much of love is about who you are with someone.

Like a good book or an incredible outfit, being on vacation transports you into another version of yourself.

It’s not your job to make me happy, okay? You can’t make anyone happy. I’m happy just because you exist, and that’s as much of my happiness as you have control over.

Suddenly we’re not kids anymore, and it feels like it happened overnight, so fast I didn’t have time to notice, to let go of everything that used to matter so much, to see that the old wounds that once felt like gut-level lacerations have faded to small white scars, mixed in among the stretch marks and sunspots and little divots where time has grazed against my body. I’ve put so much time and distance between myself and that lonely girl, and what does it matter? Here is a piece of my past, right in front of me, miles away from home. You can’t outrun yourself. Not your history, not your fears, not the parts of yourself you’re worried are wrong.

I've always felt like once someone sees me deep down, that's it. There's something ugly in there, or unlovable, and you're the only person who's ever made me feel like I'm okay.

Because I know you, he says tenderly, "and I remember what you sound like when you like something.

I’m afraid of loving you for our entire lives, and then having to say goodbye.

Tomorrow we will love each other a little more, and the next day, and the next day. And even on those days when one or both of us is having a hard time, we’ll be here, where we are completely known, completely accepted, by the person whose every side we love wholeheartedly. I’m here with all the versions of him I’ve met over twelve years of vacations, and even if the point of life isn’t just being happy, right now, I am. Down to the bones.

And that's how it is in real life too. You can love someone and still know the future you'd have with them wouldn't work for you, or for them, or maybe even for both of you.

I thought you didn’t like holding hands,” I say. “And you said you did,” he says. “So, what? I just get whatever I want now?” I tease. His smile flickers back into place, calm and restrained. “Yes, Poppy,” he says. “You get whatever you want now. Is that a problem?” “What if I want you to have what you want?” He arches an eyebrow. “Are you just saying that because you know what I’m going to say, and you want to make fun of me for it?” “No?” I say. “Why? What are you going to say?” Our hands go still between us. “I have what I want, Poppy.

There aren't words vast or specific enough to capture the ecstasy and the ache and love and fear I feel just looking at him now.

That crush of happiness, that feeling that this is what life’s about: being somewhere beautiful, with someone you love.

Can you just do me one favor?” I ask. He knots his hands against my spine. “Hm?” “Only hold my hand when you want to.” “Poppy,” he says, “there may come a day when I no longer need to be touching you at all times, but that day is not today.

I’m saying,” Rachel replies, “that purpose matters more than contentment.

For me, traveling is about wandering, meeting people you don’t expect, doing things you’ve never done.

The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. “You could have always looked,” he says in a low voice. “Just so you know.” “Well, you could’ve too,” I say. “Trust me,” he says. “I did.

On vacation, you can be anyone you want. Like a good book or an incredible outfit, being on vacation transports you into another version of yourself.

Contentment is a lie invented by capitalism,

You can’t outrun yourself. Not your history, not your fears, not the parts of yourself you’re worried are wrong.