E. D. Dylan

When I fled London for a couple of months to recover from burnout, I had no idea that I had also brought along something that had been waiting a lifetime to show its face.

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​In the space of sixteen months, my mother, one of my closest friends, my neighbour, and my beloved dog had all died. I was exhausted and bubbling with grief. So I did what I always do. I booked a flight. 

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Southeast Asia should do the trick. It always had. 

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​On the island of Bali, I thought I had run far enough. But in spite of the comedic mishaps, the blue beauty beneath the waves, and the first taste of freedom I'd felt in years, I couldn't shake my anxiety.

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In Kuala Lumpur, I met Amir, an Iraqi academic who showed me the city. Funny, awkward, and somehow always halfway out the door.

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Meanwhile, Noor – a Syrian woman I had been supporting remotely – was making a dangerous journey across the water with her young family. For days, I checked my phone, not knowing if the bodies washing up on Turkish shores included her and the kids.

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In the sweltering urban stink of the Malaysian metropolis, I lost it. The insomnia, the memories, and the stress had followed me halfway across the world.

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And then an incident on the street sent me hoofing it once more.​ This time to a remote island in the South China Sea, where I could run no more.

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What had been locked inside of me finally caught up and demanded I listen to the story it had to tell.

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It wasn't quite the same story I'd been telling myself, but it was one I needed to hear.