Miles Apart

My girlfriend of seven years, Marion, likes to travel a lot. I don't particularly care for traveling, but I do care about her. Lately, though, it's beginning to wear me down.

Marion is a whirlwind of energy, always planning the next adventure. Our small apartment in the Upper East Side is her launchpad—a place to rest and refuel before the next big trip. I've lost count of how many times I've come home to find her sprawled on the couch, poring over travel blogs, guidebooks, and itineraries, her eyes lighting up with excitement at the prospect of discovering another far-flung corner of the world.

"Let's go to Iceland next!" she'd say, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. "Imagine us under the Northern Lights, or exploring the ice caves!"

I'd smile, nod, and mentally prepare myself for another journey. I like to think of myself as supportive. I've gone with her to see the cherry blossoms in Kyoto, the bustling markets of Marrakech, the wine country in Tuscany, and countless other places. And don't get me wrong—these trips are often beautiful, filled with memories that most people would kill for. But they leave me drained in a way that's hard to explain. I'm a man who craves routine, who finds comfort in the familiar. The constant motion, the disruption to my quiet, ordered life—it wears me down.

Marion, of course, thrives on it. Her suitcase is perpetually half-packed, her camera always charged, her passport never far from reach. She talks about these trips for months afterward, her face glowing as she recounts every detail, every sight and sound. And I listen, because I love her, and because seeing her happy makes it all worth it. Or at least, it used to.

But something's changed. Lately, I've started to dread these trips. The thought of another early morning flight, another round of packing and unpacking, another stretch of time spent navigating unfamiliar streets, trying to keep up with Marion's boundless energy—it's like a weight pressing down on me. And the thing is, I haven't told her. I don't know how to tell her.

One night, after she's fallen asleep, I sit on the couch, staring at the map of the world she's pinned to the wall, each visited country marked with a tiny red pushpin. There are so many pins now, spreading out across the continents like a rash. I run my hand through my hair, feeling the familiar pang of guilt in my chest. Marion loves this. She lives for it. How could I take that away from her? And yet, how can I keep pretending that I'm okay with it?

I think back to the early days of our relationship, when everything was new and exciting. I was the one who introduced Marion to travel, taking her on a spontaneous weekend trip to Paris after we'd been dating for just a few months. It was supposed to be a romantic gesture, a way to impress her, and it worked. She fell in love with travel, and I fell in love with her all over again. But now, seven years later, I wonder if I've created a monster. If I hadn't taken her to Paris, would she still be this obsessed with seeing the world? Would we have settled into a quieter, more stable life?

I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away. It's not fair to blame Marion for this. She's always been upfront about who she is and what she wants. I was the one who changed, the one who grew weary of the constant motion. But that doesn't make it any easier.

The next morning, over breakfast, Marion starts talking about a new trip she's planning—this time to New Zealand. She's practically bouncing in her seat as she describes the hikes we could take, the beaches we could visit, the adventures we could have. I sip my coffee, nodding along, but my mind is somewhere else entirely.

"Doesn't it sound amazing?" she asks, her eyes shining with excitement.

"Yeah," I say, forcing a smile. "It sounds great."

But it doesn't. Not to me.

That evening, I decide to go for a walk. The city is alive with the hum of traffic, the distant chatter of people out for dinner or drinks. I find myself wandering into Central Park, the cool evening air a welcome contrast to the stuffiness of our apartment. As I walk, I try to sort through my thoughts, to figure out what I want, what I need to do.

Marion deserves someone who can match her energy, someone who shares her passion for travel. I'm not that person, and I don't think I ever was. But I love her. I don't want to lose her. And yet, I can't keep pretending that everything's fine when it isn't.

I sit down on a bench near the lake, watching as the last rays of sunlight reflect off the water. I think about the life I imagined for us—one where we're settled, where we have a home filled with memories, not just souvenirs from our travels. A life where we're together, but not constantly on the move. But that's my dream, not hers.

As I sit there, a thought occurs to me. What if I don't have to go on every trip? What if we find a way to make this work, where she can still travel and I can stay home? It's not ideal, but it's a compromise. Maybe that's what we need.

When I get back to the apartment, Marion is sitting on the couch, scrolling through photos from our last trip. She looks up as I walk in, smiling. "Hey, I was just thinking about our hike in the Dolomites. Remember that?"

I nod, sitting down next to her. "Yeah, I remember. It was beautiful."

She leans into me, her head resting on my shoulder. "I can't wait for our next adventure."

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. "Marion, there's something I need to talk to you about."

She pulls away slightly, looking at me with concern. "What is it?"

I pause, choosing my words carefully. "I love you, and I love that you're passionate about traveling. But... I think it's starting to wear on me. I've been thinking, maybe you could go on some of these trips without me. I'll stay here, and you can go explore, and when you come back, we'll have new stories to share."

Her face falls, and I immediately regret saying anything. But then, she surprises me. "I've been wondering when you'd say something."

I blink, caught off guard. "You have?"

She nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I could tell you weren't enjoying the trips as much as you used to. I didn't want to push you, but I was hoping you'd say something before it got to be too much."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to disappoint you."

"You're not disappointing me," she says, taking my hand. "I love traveling, but I don't want it to come between us. If you need to stay home sometimes, that's okay. We'll figure it out."

I squeeze her hand, relief washing over me. "Thank you."

She smiles, leaning in to kiss me. "You're welcome. And hey, maybe this means I can start doing those crazy hikes you never want to do."

I laugh, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. "Maybe."

That night, as we lie in bed, I feel a sense of peace I haven't felt in a long time. Marion is still the same adventurous, travel-loving woman I fell in love with, and I'm still the homebody who prefers the comfort of routine. But maybe, just maybe, we can make this work. We can find a balance that makes us both happy.

As I drift off to sleep, I realize that this is our new adventure—finding a way to be together, even when we're miles apart.