it felt good to be in another country. to sleep out of sheer exhaustion, to stumble home to hostels and not have to worry about taxis or public transport. one morning we woke up in a little place called namaste guest house, halfway between two layers of clouds.

most days, we’d just walk for hours. i’d find myself reliving all the moments i hadn’t quite committed to when i’d been at home: i mentally apologised to justine for how rubbish my cooking had been the day i made her a batch of the couscous; i elaborated on alex’s long, endless, anecdote-rich and generally purposeless stories and missed his hooting laughter; and wondered, oddly, what cathy had meant when she came home drunk one night and mused on why her old canadian friend had made her and bob godparents to their child, when they’re just not very good those things.