Selene's POV
The airplane window framed the sky like a moving watercolor—clouds like cotton fields stretching across golden light. Somewhere beyond them lay Nepal: ancient, breathless, waiting.
Ayra sat beside me, eyes wide, clutching Eliot's hand as the plane tilted into descent. Antonio, across the aisle, had his headphones in, gazing out with a look I'd only ever seen when he watched me sketch—half-dream, half-devotion.
"Is it weird I already miss Paris?" Ayra murmured.
I smiled. "No. But maybe… we're making space for something new."
When the plane finally touched down in Kathmandu, the door opened to a gust of dry, cool air and the scent of incense and dust. Mountains loomed in the far haze like silent sentinels. For a moment, none of us spoke.
We just… breathed.
——Day One: Kathmandu to Pokhara——
Pokhara felt like something from a dream.
The streets were lined with bright prayer flags, fluttering like stories. Locals greeted us with warmth, offering marigold garlands and sweet spiced tea. Even Antonio looked stunned silent when we stood before Phewa Lake—its still waters reflecting the Annapurna range like a second sky.
We stayed in a humble guesthouse with wood-framed windows and handwoven quilts. Over dinner, we shared dal bhat and momo dumplings, laughing at Eliot's attempt to use chopsticks, and Mira's dare to eat the hottest pickle.
That night, Antonio and I sat on the rooftop under a blanket. The stars above Pokhara didn't twinkle—they pulsed, alive and close.
"I can hear the silence," he whispered.
"Me too," I said, and leaned into his shoulder.
———————Day Two: Trek Begins — Nayapul to Tikhedhunga———————
Boots laced, packs strapped, we took our first real steps onto the trail.
The path wove between terraced rice fields, through tiny villages where children waved and goats bleated. Ayra had a ribbon in her hair and humming a tune that didn't need words. Eliot kept photographing every flower. I swear he fell in love with a rhododendron bush.
Antonio walked beside me, sometimes in front, sometimes behind—making sure I didn't slip. And every now and then, his fingers would brush mine. Not enough to distract. Just enough to remind me we were doing this together.
That evening, our lodge was simple—a fireplace, shared tea, and stories traded with other travelers from around the world. We were sore, breathless, tired—but glowing.
———————Day Three: Waterfalls, Bridges & Buried Emotions———————
Today, we crossed a swinging suspension bridge draped in flags.
I froze halfway.
The wind rushed below, the river thundered, and for a second, my body forgot courage.
Antonio turned. Held out his hand. "You trust me?"
Always.
Step by step, I crossed.
Ayra watched from the other end, eyes wide, heart visible on her face. When I reached her, she pulled me into a tight hug.
Eliot snapped a picture without asking. "You're going to want this later," he said.
That night, after dinner, we shared our fears. Not just about heights or trails, but about life. About what we left behind, what we still carry.
"We're not just hiking," Ayra said. "We're shedding."
We fell asleep that night to the sound of rain on tin, fire crackling low, and the mountains keeping quiet watch.