Studying in Germany during COVID had its goods and bads. For me, it came with one unexpected gift: freedom to move (of course, within the allowed areas).
I traveled often—with Silvia, who started as my classmate and became one of my best people in life.
Silvia loves me.
And I love her.
I also learned how to say ‘love’ more often because of her.
We traveled to many countries together. But the one that stayed with me—the one my body remembers most clearly—was Norway.
Tromsø, September
That evening in Tromsø, the sun was doing that dramatic Arctic thing where it sets slowly, like a diva refusing to leave the stage. Silvia and I had taken the cable car up to Fjellheisen, and the world looked like it had been painted in cold gold.
Silvia, of course, was in her natural habitat—absolutely thriving in temperatures that make normal humans reconsider their life choices.
Her resistance to cold is a mystery of biology. Sometimes I think Costa Rica definitely didn’t prepare her for this—and yet Norway seems to have no idea it’s supposed to bother her.
Although we hadn’t planned the hike or even to be on that mountain, we were there. So we decided to walk along a small trail to explore the mountain a bit further, without proper clothes or shoes or socks. There were other hikers around us, which helped a lot. We walked together. We talked. And Silvia advanced a little bit further in front of me as I was still taking photos behind her. Back then, I had an idea of taking photos when I traveled with my camera, editing them and uploading them to a stock photo marketplace to earn some passive income. While I was estimating how much I could earn with these amazing photos of Norway, Silvia turned around, checking on me and giving me a warm smile.
She was happy as I could tell by the way she walked.
Meanwhile, a few minutes later, I was there silently negotiating with myself:
Should we go back?
Should we continue?
Should I admit I’m freezing?
Should I just… die here quietly so I don’t ruin Silvia’s fun?
I said nothing.
Because at that point in my life, I had not yet learned the revolutionary skill called honesty about my needs.
So I walked behind her—
half admiring the landscape,
half calculating whether frostbite begins in the toes or the soul. I already had a hint that it started with fingers.
Silvia turned back: “Daiiiiii, let’s go higher!! It’s so beautiful!”
Me, internally: Yes, of course… and so is hypothermia.
But I continued anyway.
Eventually, my body reached its limit. I told her,
“You go ahead, I’ll wait here.”
She stopped. Looked worried. Walked towards me. Asked if I was okay. Asked if I was sure.
After I reassured her… about a hundred times, she finally hugged me, waved a temporary goodbye, and disappeared up the trail.
I sat down on the grass and started appreciating the sunset.
After around ten minutes, it got darker and that’s when I learned a scientific fact:
The moment you stop walking in the Arctic, you don’t simply feel cold.
No.
Your soul leaves your body to file a formal complaint.
Without movement, the wind hit me like knives made of ice.
I couldn’t feel my face.
I stood up.
I started pacing.
Then panicking.
Then thinking, Maybe I should go down alone…now
So I walked five minutes down the path, thinking, “Just a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes. Hot chocolate is waiting.”
But halfway, something hit me even harder than the cold:
What about Silvia?
She is up there alone.
What if something happens to her?
That thought froze me more than the wind. There was no signal there for a text message to come through.
I turned back, half running, half crying, trying to find her.
And then—like a movie scene—
I saw her. Coming towards me.
Crying too.
She had returned to the spot where I said I would wait.
I wasn’t there.
She thought something had happened to me.
That I had slipped.
That I had rolled down the hill.
We ran into each other like two lost children, crying and shaking, and held on so tightly the cold didn’t matter anymore.
Later, she told me,
“There was a small lake up there… so beautiful. I didn’t take a photo. I wanted to just feel it.”
That night taught me something I didn’t fully understand until years later:
Safety isn’t the absence of fear.
Safety is someone coming back for you when they notice you’re gone.
And something else:
On that mountain, I left myself behind first.
Long before Silvia couldn’t find me.
Tromsø was a rehearsal.
My later love life was the stage.
Because on that mountain I also learned this:
You can love someone deeply…
and still lose yourself while trying to keep up.
And you can lose sight of someone for five minutes and feel like the world is ending—
not because of their absence,
but because you’ve never truly learned how to stay with yourself.
Hi, I'm Dai and I'm from Vietnam 🚀 