It happened in Lisbon — although it really could’ve been anywhere. I’d turned down a narrow street on my way to the Miradouro da Graça viewpoint, certain I knew the way. Ten minutes later, I realised I had absolutely no idea where I was. No map.

I thought happiness would look like a postcard — sunsets over the Amalfi Coast, croissants in Paris, something cinematic. But when I finally set off across Europe with nothing but a backpack, it turned out happiness was quieter, smaller. It showed up in train stations, shared hostels, and the moments in between.

I used to think travelling was about where you went. Then I realised it’s mostly about who you go with — or whether you go with anyone at all.

The empty seat beside me on that Gatwick-bound flight seemed to yawn with judgement. Who travels alone? I’d wondered, fidgeting with my boarding pass.