Cycling was my childhood dream. When I met Sandra, it became our dream. It took time for me to adjust to the language of “we” and “ours”. This journey—life on the road—is beautiful but brutal. It offers no pause, no space to breathe. Over time, your tolerance narrows. The daily intensity magnifies everything—joy, pain, closeness, and even the distance that silently grows between two people.

Breaking up while abroad is a different kind of challenge. There are no familiar places to run to, no home to collapse in, no friend just down the street. It takes a quiet kind of courage to end something respectfully, especially when love is still present. But sometimes, letting go is the only way to honour what was—and what both of you need now.

Yes, a decision is made. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t break me, too. Sometimes, doing what feels right hurts more than doing what’s easy. I didn’t stop caring. I didn’t stop loving. I just started to see that something had shifted, and maybe neither of us wanted to admit how much. And still, we kept cycling. Kept hoping the road would fix us. That distance would somehow bring us closer.

Sandra and I cycled over 13,000 kilometres together. We crossed mountains, deserts, and countless emotional storms. We overcame so much, hand in hand. We laughed in places that had no name, cried in places that had no comfort. We slept behind gas stations, in backyards, in mountain mosques. We saw the best and worst of the world—and each other. That kind of bond doesn’t vanish overnight. And maybe, it never has to disappear.
I think back to our 13,000 kilometers together. To the boy in the village who harassed Sandra and how we stood side by side, stronger as a team. To the old man who served us tea on a cold mountain night. To the children in dusty towns who gave us directions without words. Those memories aren’t just hers or mine. They’re ours. And they always will be. But now, I have to carry them alone. And that’s the hardest part—being the sole witness to a story that once had two voices.

A friend told me something I keep repeating to myself:
“It’s not your right to ask ‘Why?’ right now. ‘Why’ is a privilege. It may come one day when your heart is quieter. But what you can ask today is: ‘What? What can I do?’”

What can I do with this pain?
What can I do with the love that’s still here, even after the goodbye?
What can I do to not lose myself in the silence?

Right now, I carry more questions than answers.
Should I continue the journey? Should I return to Berlin? I booked a flight home. Then I cancelled it. Who am I now, without us? What is my past trying to tell me—and what is my future waiting for?

But one thing I do feel certain about:
We both need a lot of love right now.
Not necessarily from each other. But from the world, from ourselves, and from the people around us who remind us that it’s okay to break and still be whole.