There is a specific kind of quiet you only find when you are three days’ walk from the nearest cell tower. But solo travel, for all its freedom, has a weight to it. You see a sunrise that looks like the sky is burning gold, and you turn to share it, but there is just empty air. I was getting tired of that empty air.

I wanted a partner. Not just someone to sit by a hotel pool, but someone who wouldn't panic when the GPS dies. A friend suggested I try looking online, specifically mentioning amourmeet as a place where people are actually looking for genuine connections, not just quick chats. I was skeptical. I’m not really the "dating app" type. I’m more the "buy a used van and drive until it breaks down" type. But I created a profile, uploaded a photo of me covered in mud from my last hike, and wrote: "Looking for a co-pilot who owns hiking boots."

That’s how I found Maya.

We didn't start with poetry or grand promises. We started by comparing tent specs. She messaged me about a photo I had from the Andes, correctly identifying the mountain range. We met for coffee a week later. She arrived wearing a rain jacket because the forecast said 40% chance of showers. I liked that practical optimism.

Last week, we finally tested the theory. We picked a route through a remote part of the Balkans—a place where the roads are mostly suggestions.

The first day was... rough. I’m used to my own rhythm. I walk fast. I eat when I’m starving, not at set times. Having another human there felt clumsy at first. I felt like I had to perform, to be the "guide." I was nervous I’d make a wrong turn and look incompetent.

And I did make a wrong turn.

We were looking for a trailhead near an old village. The map said left; the landscape said impossible. We ended up bushwhacking through dense, scratchy shrubs for two hours. It started to rain—that cold, gray drizzle that soaks into your socks. My mood dropped. I was ready to apologize, to turn back, to accept that this was a disaster and she’d probably never want to go anywhere with me again.

I looked back at her. She wasn't frowning. She was picking blackberries off a bush, eating them with wet hands.

"These are sour," she said, offering me one. "But they’re free."

We laughed. It wasn't a movie moment. We were wet, cold, and lost. But the tension in my chest unknotted. We sat on a wet rock, ate sour berries, and checked the compass together. We didn't find the view we were looking for that day, but we found a rhythm.

That night, we set up camp in a clearing. We cooked instant noodles that tasted like salt and plastic, but we were warm. We talked about regular things—her job in logistics, my fear of heights (ironic, I know), and the books we brought but didn't read.

It’s not perfect. She snores a little, and I get grumpy when I’m hungry. We aren't "destined" to be together; we are just two people choosing to walk the same path for a while. But waking up this morning, seeing two mugs of coffee steaming in the cold air instead of one, felt right. The map is still full of blank spaces, but at least now, I have someone to hold the compass while I drive.