Isabel worked remotely doing graphic design for tourism businesses, which meant she could move around whenever she wanted.
And apparently, she did exactly that.
Over the following weeks, we kept crossing paths naturally.
Then eventually we just started traveling together.
Not officially.
There was never a conversation about it.
It simply became easier to continue in the same direction.
She showed me a completely different version of the Philippines than the one most tourists see.
Small islands without resorts.
Local seafood places with no signs outside.
Mountain roads where random goats blocked traffic constantly.
At one point we spent nearly an entire afternoon helping push a broken truck out of deep mud during heavy rain because nobody else had enough people to move it.
That somehow turned into drinks later with strangers who acted like we’d known each other for years.
I liked how little she cared about appearances.
I’ve spent years around people trying to impress each other constantly. Expensive dinners, expensive watches, expensive conversations.
With Isabel, none of that mattered.
She made fun of my expensive luggage at least twice a day.
One morning she convinced me to ride in a tiny overloaded fishing boat to a smaller island because she insisted the snorkeling there was better.
Halfway there, the engine stopped working completely.
Instead of panicking, everyone onboard started joking about it while the boat drifted slowly near the rocks.
I remember sitting there thinking:
“This is either incredibly irresponsible or one of the best days I’ve had in years.”
It ended up being both.
At night, we’d usually sit somewhere near the water talking for hours.
Not about dramatic things.
Just life.
Travel.
Family.
Getting older.
The strange ways people change after losing someone important.
One evening she asked me:
“Do you ever stop moving?”
I told her I probably would eventually.
But honestly…
I wasn’t sure if I believed that myself.
