Chapter 5: Saltwater & Frangipani

The decision wasn’t dramatic.

No slammed doors.
No weepy airport scene.
Just the quiet click of the kettle, the soft shuffle of a bag being zipped, and the whisper of flight confirmation on her screen.
She told no one at first, not even him. Just whispers, hints of needing to go so she could remember herself.

So she booked the ticket.
Thailand.
Ten days.
Just her.
Not the wife.
Not the mother.
Not the teacher.

Just Nariman. In jeans, a white tank top, and a brilliant aqua short kimono gifted by her sister giving her the semblance of a free spirit, when in truth, she had conformed her whole life. And now she was scared out of her friggin’ mind.

Just the woman.
The one who used to write short stories and erotica in spiral notebooks.
The one who dreamed about swimming in warm water under a golden sunset on foreign shores.

She landed in Phuket in the heart of darkness. 1:30 a.m., and it hit her all at once:  the smell of the air, the fried garlic and lemongrass curling around exhaust fumes, the wet warmth that clung to her skin like an old friend. It was overwhelming. But it felt like a long, drawn-out hug from a forgotten self.

She was a stranger alone in a strange land, and yes, she was a little afraid.
The driver was there, holding the board with her name and for the first time in a long time, she felt hopeful.
She was still Nariman.
And now, she would get to hear her voice again, without the noise of everyday life drowning it out.

---

The taxi wound slowly south.
She sat upright for what felt like forever through winding roads lined with lush forest, all cloaked in night.
“He might be driving me anywhere,” she thought, momentarily fearful.
She quashed the thought.
And prayed.

Many mornings, she watched the sunrise paint the horizon in peach and rose from her window seat, eating mango sticky rice with her fingers.
She took slow, barefoot steps across the temple courtyard in Karon Beach, where saffron-robed monks moved like silent prayers, and bells rang out like truth.

She took a thousand photos, but posted none.
This was her pilgrimage. Her return.
And when she was ready, she would share.

There, in a place where no one knew her name or her story, she started remembering:

How she loved her coffee strong, with just a dash of milk (not the cold cups gulped in busy staff rooms).
How her curves looked damn good in a sarong.
How she could flirt with a glance, a smile, a tilt of the head.
How her joy used to take up space...radiant, unashamed, full.

And one morning, at Kamala Beach, after swimming in warm saltwater until her fingers pruned and her heart softened, she stood under a frangipani tree and let herself feel.

The silence of her heart in the busyness of work and life.
The slow erosion of her creativity under the weight of bureaucracy and duty.
The aching loneliness of performing a role, instead of living a purpose.

She didn’t run from it.
She let the petals fall into her open palms and whispered,
“This is mine. All of it. And I’m still here.”

---

Each day, she wrote again.
Not emails.
Not school reports.
Not birthday cards on the kitchen counter with hearts instead of punctuation.

But real words.
Messy. Wild. Alive.

She scribbled in her journal at dawn her handwriting loosening like her grip on perfection.
She wrote on napkins. On hotel stationery.
Once, even on the inside of her palm, when the words were too urgent to wait.

She was writing herself back into being.

---

There were no revelations.
No thunderbolts under a Bodhi tree.
No tidy resolutions.

Just small, sacred things:

The way the sea wrapped itself around her tired body like forgiveness.
The way women in night markets offered her grilled bananas with soft, knowing smiles.
The way her hips began to sway again when no one was watching.

By the end of the trip, she didn’t want to go back to where she was when she left.
But she wasn’t numb anymore either.

---

She came home sun-kissed, soft-eyed, and just a little changed.

He noticed it first ...the quiet certainty in her movements.
The new rituals: long, candlelit baths. Frequent travel plans and road trips. The way she lit up when she wrote.

And when he asked,
“Did you find what you were looking for?”

She smiled, slow and wide.
“I wasn’t looking. I was remembering.”