Scrunching it against the passenger window, he zonks out.
He’s barely kept his eyes open since we neared Barcaldine.
We stopped for lunch briefly.
On the outskirts of Morven, he wakes again.
We’re stuck behind a bus.
He eyes the passengers with curiosity as we pass it.
“Feels different than before,” he says. “Travelling through these towns.”
“Different how?”
“This time I'm heading home. With a man who feels like home.”
I’d like to be his home forever.
And ever.
And ever.
Where do I sign up for that?
We carve a line across the map.
By late afternoon, we’re passing through Yuleba.
“You know,” he says in a sleepy haze, “Small towns are sort of beautiful.”
“Hmm,” I nod. “Beautiful in a way that cities never could be.”
Not just because nature’s voice is less muffled out here.
“People notice each other,” he says. “They don’t rush. They know how to slow down.”
“Very true,” I reply.
“I’ve been needing to slow down,” he yawns.
And with that, he returns to dreamland.
He must need it.
The last few days have zapped him of energy.
???
I miss him when he sleeps.
But the endless stretch of road gives my mind plenty of time to wander.
In less than a year, our love story has bloomed.
I met a man who learned to survive by building a fortress.
And now he’s peeled back the layers.
