Between Bohinj and Bled
We drove from Lake Bohinj toward Lake Bled late at night, exhaustion settling deep into the bones. I was at the wheel. Mo sat next to me, finished too, but doing his best to stay awake, eyes open, body angled slightly toward mine — the quiet kind of vigilance that says I’m here, you’re not alone. The chores were behind us, the fox encounter still hovering somewhere in our peripheral vision.
The road cut through a forest dense enough to swallow sound. I kept imagining a deer darting onto the asphalt without warning. There was barely any light, no cars, just the hum of the engine and house music pulsing from the speakers — Mo’s choice, steady and rhythmic, a small strategy to keep us alert.
While I drove, I watched him from the corner of my eye. He felt different. Softer. Almost docile. More than at the start of the trip, if that was even possible. There was a way he seemed to adjust himself around me — trying to please, agreeing with everything I said, anticipating my needs before I voiced them. Almost submissive. And that wasn’t him. Mo is dominant by nature. Not forceful, not imposing — but grounded, decisive, comfortable in control.
This version of him felt unfamiliar. Not wrong. Just unusual.
I didn’t bring it up. I didn’t want to put him on the spot or disturb whatever balance we were in. I told myself it was the environment, the constant movement, the unfamiliar rhythm of travel. Still, I became more attentive. Quietly observant. Committed to understanding the shift without interrogating it. There were no banters, no debates, no playful disagreements — only him being endlessly amiable, agreeable, accommodating. Too smooth. Too calm.
We made it close to our destination without incident, which already felt like a minor achievement.
The parking spot suggested by the app was absurd. Right next to the road, steep, exposed — sleeping there would have meant negotiating with gravity all night. We kept driving. One failed attempt, then another. Eventually, exhaustion made the decision for us. We pulled into a bay near a petrol station. Not scenic. Not romantic. Hopefully invisible.
We were too tired to care.
Thankfully, we had already eaten and showered in Bohinj, so we moved quickly — campervan locked, teeth brushed, bodies horizontal. The world switched off.
A Sharp Turn, Without Warning
The ride from the petrol station toward Lake Bled unfolded gently at first, almost deceptively so. Ljubljanska cesta carried us away from the utilitarian edges of town — fuel pumps, parked cars, sleepy signage — and slowly into a landscape that began to soften with every curve. Low houses gave way to meadows. Campgrounds appeared, tucked discreetly between trees, their wooden cabins lined up with quiet discipline. Cyclists passed us in steady rhythm. The road narrowed, the air cooled, and the forest thickened.
Pines dominated first, tall and orderly, then came the mix — ferns carpeting the ground, sycamores and hornbeams leaning inward as if curious. The road hugged the lake gradually, never announcing it all at once. Instead, glimpses appeared between trunks: flashes of cold blue water, darker where the sky pressed low, lighter where it caught the pale reflection of the clouds.
Luxury hotels emerged along the shore — restrained, elegant, stone and glass kept intentionally quiet, as if aware that anything louder would be inappropriate here. Camping areas stretched close to the water, dotted with towels, bicycles, and people moving slowly, unhurried. Ahead, Bled Castle began to rise, perched high on its cliff, not dramatic but assured — the kind of presence that doesn’t need to impress because it already knows it will be seen.
We parked the Vespa near a restaurant, close to a camping area, and crossed the road. In front of us, a wide lawn opened toward the lake. People lay scattered across the grass — some sunbathing, some halfway undressed and drying after a swim, others simply staring at the water. It was lively, but not chaotic. Enough movement to feel human, not enough to feel crowded.
I noticed the dock immediately.
I stepped onto it slowly, letting the view settle before reaching for my phone. In front of me, the lake stretched wide and calm, its surface a muted mix of blue and green under the gloomy summer sky. To the left, Bled Castle stood firm and watchful. To the right, the small island floated in perfect balance, the gothic Church of Mary the Queen rising delicately from its centre, framed by trees and reflected softly in the water.
It was peaceful. Romantic, without trying.
I stood there longer than necessary, breathing it in. That was exactly what I needed. Far from Dubai. Far from the noise, the constant comparison, the low-grade anxiety that city injects into you without consent. In Dubai, I always feel late. Behind. Like I need to work harder, be smarter, move faster. Grass cannot be greener if there is no grass at all — and to have grass, you need a villa. To have a villa, you need money. A lot of it.
I had never obsessed over money the way I started doing after moving there. Especially after working in real estate. Everyone talks about nothing else. And worse — you watch insane amounts of money pass right under your nose, close enough to smell. You don’t touch it, but the scent is enough to awaken a hunger you didn’t have before. You start comparing yourself to people impossibly ahead, and even when your life is objectively fine, it begins to feel insufficient. A vicious, dangerous loop.
Standing on that dock, surrounded by mountains, birdsong, cold air and water, all of that fell silent. I was present. Fully. And the moment felt complete. Sweet. I remember thinking it couldn’t possibly get better than that.
Maybe.
As Mo was about to join me, I noticed two young women waiting politely for their turn to take photos. Mo offered to take their picture in exchange for a short video of us. They agreed. I didn’t understand what kind of video he wanted. I didn’t know how to pose. I asked questions. He was awkward, uneasy. Then he asked me to put my phone on the ground to record as well. I laughed, confused. Why?
One of the women was still holding his phone, waiting.
I kept asking, almost interrogating — what’s the plan, what do you want me to do, give me directions and I’ll follow, but right now I’m lost. And then a thought began to form. Slowly. Dangerously.
Is he going to?
By the time the thought finished its sentence, it was too late.
He knelt.
His face was red, eyes watery, smile wide and nervous.
“Will you marry me?”
Black case.
Opened.
Diamond.
If Error 404 had a face, it was mine.
A sharp hit in my chest, then my stomach. My body buzzed, tingled, detached from reality. I couldn’t process it. This was the sharp turn. The one I didn’t see coming. Not on this road. Not on this trip.
We had spoken about marriage. About a future. But never like this. Never now. We had fought badly before leaving Dubai — days of silence, the first time since we started dating. The usual fractures: his restlessness, his fear of missing out, his inability to stay still. My need to withdraw, to read, to write, to be quiet. His devotion to his family house, clinging to it like a nest, unable to imagine a shared life with me as something fully grown and separate.
No routines together. No gym, no groceries, barely coffee. Family time replaced couple time. Even after my LASIK surgery, he dragged me around exhausted, until his mother noticed and told him to take me home. I admired his loyalty — but not when it turned into obsession. Not when it erased us.
I had exploded. I told him I wanted to break up. He was shocked, as if the idea had never crossed his mind. We eventually made peace, with promises, with exhaustion. I decided to observe him on this trip. To see who he was outside his comfort zone.
And yet, while I was analysing, doubting, weighing — he was planning this.
Seeing him on his knees, everything shifted. I asked if he was serious. Once. Twice. I laughed, looked away, realised the two women were still filming. I knelt to hug him, laughing nervously, whispering yes into his ear like a secret I didn’t want the universe to hear.
His face said everything. That was love. I had never been loved like that. And I had never loved like that — with all of myself.
Applause broke the spell. Strangers in swimsuits clapped. I apologised to the women, stood up, held his hand. We stayed there a little longer, letting it sink into our skin. Another stranger helped with photos.
The ring is stunning — a square, emerald-cut diamond sits at the centre — clean lines, architectural, almost restrained — framed by a fine halo of smaller stones that soften its geometry without stealing focus. The band is slim and delicate, pavé-set, letting the light travel all the way around without ever feeling excessive. Everything about it feels intentional: balanced, elegant, confident.
We walked toward the Olimpijski Veslaški Center almost without speaking. My legs were moving, but my body hadn’t caught up yet. Everything felt slightly delayed, like sound after lightning. Mo suggested calling his family. They had known about his plan. Their joy exploded through the screen — voices overlapping, laughter, disbelief, pride. It was loud, immediate, celebratory. I smiled, waved, nodded, let myself be seen without fully being there.
I tried calling my mum. It rang. She answered. I hesitated. The words stayed in my throat. I wasn’t ready. Not yet. I ended the call gently and put my phone back in my bag. I wanted to keep this moment intact, unshared, still forming. Just ours.
As we continued walking through the forest, the dizziness set in. Not joy. Not fear. Shock. A physical one. As if my entire system had been jolted and didn’t know where to place the energy. My chest felt hollow and full at the same time. My head floated somewhere above my shoulders. I slowed my steps and focused on the ground beneath my feet — gravel, roots, uneven earth. On the smell of damp leaves. On the rhythm of our hands intertwined.
Mo stayed close, instinctively. He didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to. He was glowing — nervous, euphoric, relieved. His hazel eyes, framed by long dark lashes, were bright in a way I had never seen before. Open. Certain. That look I had imagined, doubted, but never stopped hoping for. Seeing it so clearly made everything else fall quiet.
We stopped for gelato — pistachio for him, walnut for me. It felt almost absurd to be doing something so ordinary after something so seismic.
Mo’s phone started vibrating instead. First a message, then another, then calls — one after the other. His mother had shared the news with the family, and congratulations came flooding in. He answered them, smiling, half-laughing, trying to speak and listen at the same time. I stayed slightly to the side, watching, holding the moment gently, untouched.
My own phone stayed silent. By choice.
I didn’t tell anyone. Not yet. I wanted to keep it to myself, to enjoy it without translation or commentary. I needed time — time for my body to catch up, for the shock to soften into something I could name. I wasn’t ready to release it into the world. I wanted it whole. Ours.
As we were leaving the area near the Olimpijski Veslaški Center, we crossed paths with a French man who stopped us to ask for directions to the Ojstrica viewpoint. We looked at each other, blank. We had no idea what he was talking about. We apologised and pointed him toward the nearby restaurant, suggesting he ask the staff. Given Slovenian hospitality, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was still wandering around, politely lost.
We walked back to the Vespa and started riding away. Just a few meters down the road, there it was — a sign. Small, unassuming. Ojstrica.
Mo made a U-turn without hesitation. We parked, locked the Vespa, and set off on foot, curiosity leading the way. The trail rose gently through the woods, rocky and uneven in places, asking for attention but not demanding effort. We climbed quietly, stopping now and then — to catch our breath, to take a photo, to absorb what was still unfolding inside us. About twenty minutes later, the trees opened up.
From above, everything aligned.
The island sat perfectly in the centre of the lake, the church rising quietly from its heart. The castle held its position on the cliff, solid and timeless. The water below shifted between green and blue, catching the light in patches under the heavy sky. It was even more beautiful from here. Wider. Calmer. Complete.
Something in me settled. The dizziness softened. The shock eased its grip. I realised I had been wrong earlier — it could get sweeter than that dock. Much sweeter.
We stood there without rushing, breathing the view in, letting it imprint itself. This was the moment we had both, in different ways, always hoped for.
We had met a year earlier through beach volleyball. Instant attraction. No negotiation. No confusion. The same humour. The same loyalty. The same hunger for closeness. Cultural differences dissolved so quickly they barely registered. I had crossed the planet — the Americas, China, Fiji, the far edges of Africa — eventually landing in the Middle East. And there he was. The man I had hoped for even in the seasons when I claimed I didn’t care about love, marriage, or permanence. The one who fit not the version of myself I was trying to construct, but the one that had always been there.
We took a few more photos, then sat side by side in silence, letting the place hold us a little longer before beginning our descent.
On the Vespa ride back, I wrapped my arms around him tightly. The air was cold, sharp against our faces. Our noses reddened, cheeks flushed. Nothing to solve. Nothing to chase. Just motion, nature, and the quiet certainty of having landed exactly where we were meant to be.
That was life.
We stopped at a local bakery for fresh sourdough and savoury pastries. Simple. Warm. Perfect. Nothing could touch me.
I was already elsewhere.
Somewhere between yes and forever.
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