Epilogue
Jacob
If someone had shown seventeen-year-old me a map and told him he’d one day live out of a suitcase, he would have fainted clean away.
And yet, here I am, typing up a cybersecurity report on a shaded balcony in Hoi An.
Humidity is hugging my skin like a damp second shirt, lemongrass perfumes the air and drifts in through the open shutters, and Tippi is humming tunelessly as she edits footage of an interview she conducted at a queer-friendly café this morning.
Seven days. That’s our limit. On day eight she gets restless; on day nine she gets irritable; by day ten she starts pacing the walls and contemplating shaving her head for the sheer drama of it.
So we move.
And as it turns out…
I love moving.
Tippi calls it “our rolling residence.” I call it “a logistical nightmare requiring three colour-coded spreadsheets.” The truth lives somewhere squarely between the two, and, unusually for me, I adore the compromise.
She changed my life. Not by dragging me into the whirlwind of hers, but by giving me the space to build my own wings.
I set my laptop aside and look at her.
Her hair is up in a messy knot she stabbed together with two chopsticks.
Her freckles are warm from the sun. She’s wearing the tiny gold and diamond eternity ring I found for her in Florence last month.
Not an engagement ring, not officially, but the symbolism is close enough that my brain and heart both recognise it meaning mine forever.
She insists she’s “not the marrying type.”
I, however, am confidently and cunningly biding my time.
For now, the eternity ring is perfect. Simple gold, with OK engraved on the inside of the band as a tribute to our choice to stay together.
She wears it on a thin chain around her neck when we’re in places where jewellery attracts attention.
When she thinks I’m not looking, she touches it with her thumb.
One day - maybe two years from now, maybe twenty - I’ll ask again. It has nothing to do with legality. Just because she’s the only person I’ve ever wanted to stand beside and loudly, publicly declare: This is the human who turned my life technicolour.
There are days I still struggle. When there’s noise, or crowds, or change that’s too sudden, even for me now.
But Tippi builds me havens everywhere we land: quiet corners of bustling markets, headphones on long flights, evenings where we don't speak at all because our brains are full and that's utterly fine.
And I’ve opened her world too. She says I’m the anchor she didn’t know she needed; that she never knew security could feel like space rather than confinement.
In effect, she gave me freedom; I gave her steadiness.
Together, we’ve made a life that feels like breathing clean air after a lifetime underwater.
“Hey,” she says, pausing her editing and looking back at me, mischief curling her lips. “We’re due to pick a new destination. Your turn to choose, Bird Boy.”
Bird Boy. I swear I’ll never live down that TikTok live.
I smile back. “I’ve already chosen.”
“Oh?” She leans in, eyes dancing. “Where to?”
I answer the way she taught me: with joy and zero hesitation. “Wherever you are.”
Her grin softens into something that feels like sunrise. She leans across the table and kisses me like I’m home.
Because I am. Home is not a place; it’s her.
And wherever she is, I always will be.
Tippi
I never thought I’d settle down.
Correction: I haven’t settled down. Not even slightly.
But I’ve figured out how to bring someone I love into the chaos of my life without sacrificing a single inch of the freedom I need like oxygen.
And the fact that someone is Jacob Stewart still surprises me sometimes. Not because I didn’t want him, but because I never thought I’d let myself have someone like him.
The sun is setting over the lantern-lit streets below as I close my laptop.
My latest documentary-style segment is uploading.
Thank goodness, my new job is everything I used to dream about when I said, “If only they’d let me talk about sex and culture and humanity without toning it down for tea-time viewers. ”
My agent delivered.
I film around the world. We travel constantly. The network loves the rawness, the humour, the sex-positivity, and the Tippi Mills Chaos Factor?.
And the best part?
Jacob is in every episode in some tiny, subtle way: his hand passing me a mic, or his blurred shoulders in the background, or my voice saying ‘You OK?” and his soft “Yes” in reply.
He’s become part of the scenery of my life. An essential part, always there, in the best possible way.
We’ve been on the road together for eight months now. Eight months of airport lounges, midnight markets, slow kisses in unfamiliar beds, and sex so good I’ve nearly cried from it more than once. (Thank goodness, he knows how to handle that now. Beautifully.)
We’re never anywhere longer than seven days.
On day six, he gently reminds me we need to pack soon.
On day seven, he turns to me with that tiny crooked smile and says, “Ready when you are.” He doesn’t cage me, or try to fix me. He simply lets me be the chaos tornado I am, and stands in the storm with an umbrella and a laminated weather contingency plan.
And I let him have his noise-canceling headphones, his weekly video calls with his niece and his sister, his carefully arranged “Jacob Time” every morning.
We’ve also found he does better if he can have fifteen minutes just after lunch alone, resitting and doing breathing exercises while listening to rain sounds on YouTube.
Now I do it myself as well, separately. The world can be chaotic without overwhelming him, because we build our own version of stability everywhere we go.
He’s got that ring on my finger - well, on a chain around my neck - and he thinks I haven’t noticed him staring at it. As if I’m not hyper-aware of every time his thumb brushes the metal like a secret.
He hasn’t asked me again. And he won’t. Not until I invite him to.
But sometimes…
Sometimes I catch myself thinking about it.
If I ever say yes, it won’t take place in a church or a registry office. It’ll be on top of a mountain in Nepal or on a beach in Bali or in the middle of the Sahara under a riot of stars. A celebration of choosing each other without being tied down.
I stretch, closing my laptop, and wander back to him.
“Seriously, though what should we do next?” I ask, curling into his side on the couch. “Vietnam’s been fun, but I’m feeling the itch.”
He takes my hand, thumb stroking the back of it. “Well,” he says, “you mentioned wanting to see the Northern Lights again. And I found a cyber-sec conference in Stockholm next month with a very lenient attendance policy, so…”
“So Sweden?”
“Sweden,” he confirms.
I grin. “And after that?”
“We have an invitation,” he murmurs, “from your Club friends in Tokyo. Exhibitionism night. You were very excited about that.”
My grin widens into something sharp and hungry. “Oh, I still am.”
His breath catches; it’s now my favorite sound.
“And after that,” he says, smiling like he’s been keeping a secret, “you might want to check your emails.”
“Why?”
“Your agent sent through an offer this morning. Something about a multi-part global series.” His smile turns wicked. “I peeked. Sorry. But if you accept… the first episode films in Patagonia.”
Patagonia.
Holy.
Shit.
My heart spikes like champagne bubbles. “Are you serious?”
He nods, leaning in to kiss my shoulder. “Very. And before you ask… yes, I already checked. The Wi-Fi there is excellent.”
God, I love him.
And I like the person I am with him. Bigger. Freer. Softer in the right places, sharper in the ones that matter. Chosen. And choosing.
“Jacob?” I say softly, playing with the edge of his shirt.
“Yes?”
“You excited for our next adventure?”
He squeezes my hand. “I wake up excited every day,” he murmurs, “because you’re in it.”
I swear my heart actually stumbles.
Patagonia. Tokyo. Oslo.
And after that, who knows.
The world is huge. We’re small. Love is enormous. And freedom? Freedom is even bigger when you have someone to share it with. I kiss him, long and deep, tasting promise and possibility on his lips. Our epic next adventure starts in 72 hours. And wherever we land next, we’ll land together.
Life couldn’t be better.
And yet tomorrow, somehow, it will be.