The Uncharted Girl

Trips with friends always end up being only dreamt of, but somehow, luckily, our planned trip was executed. Trips to cold places really are mesmerizing — until your brain doesn’t turn cold with arguable thoughts.

We were six boys, packed into a rented SUV, driving through the narrow roads of Paro, Bhutan. The mountains loomed high above us, their peaks dusted with snow, while prayer flags fluttered in the breeze, carrying wishes to the heavens. The air smelled of pine and earth, and the sky stretched endlessly, as if promising freedom.

I laughed with the others — or at least, I made it seem like I did. Roshan cracked jokes, Aarav yelled out the lyrics to some old Bollywood song, and Karan filmed everything like a documentary. I joined in,  took selfies, and shouted when we spotted wild yaks on the roadside. But somewhere inside me, I felt distant, as though my body was there, but my mind had already wandered somewhere else.

It wasn’t until the second day that everything shifted.

We were exploring the vibrant Thimphu Weekend Market, weaving through stalls of hand-woven scarves, carved masks, and baskets of dried chilies. The aroma of incense mixed with the earthy scent of fresh vegetables. Locals bustled around, their laughter echoing through the air.

And then I saw her.

My heart stopped.

There she was — Anya. Wearing a maroon shawl, her hair cascading down her back the same way it always had. She was standing by a stall, gently brushing her fingers over some silver jewelry.

I blinked, frozen, my breath caught in my throat. I wanted to call her name, but no sound came out. She turned slightly, and though I couldn’t fully see her face, something inside me screamed that it was her. It had to be her.

I didn’t tell my friends. What would I even say? Instead, I plastered a grin on my face and let them drag me to the next stop, my mind spinning wildly.

We drove up to Dochula Pass, the road twisting through dense forests until we emerged at the top, greeted by 108 white stupas — the Druk Wangyal Chortens — standing tall against the backdrop of the Himalayas. The wind was sharp, and clouds lazily wrapped themselves around the peaks.

I stood there, gazing at the mountains, but all I could think of was her. Was she in Bhutan? Had she come here searching for something, just like she always talked about? I remembered the way she used to speak of mountains — how they felt like they were watching over the world, silent witnesses to people’s pain and joy.

I wanted to believe the mountains had brought her here.

In Punakha, we visited the Punakha Dzong, a massive fortress with intricate wood carvings and towering golden roofs. The dzong stood at the meeting point of two rivers — the Pho Chhu and Mo Chhu — their waters intertwining yet distinct. The place smelled of history and incense, the air thick with quiet reverence.

As my friends explored, I wandered to the edge of the river, watching the currents collide and swirl together. I thought of how we had been like those rivers — drawn to each other but never fully blending. She had been unpredictable, restless, always moving, while I had tried to be her anchor.

Maybe she had resented me for that. Maybe she didn’t want to be grounded.

I clenched my fists and smiled when Roshan called me over for a group picture. The camera captured my face, my smile perfectly intact, but my mind was somewhere else, chasing her ghost.

The hardest part was Tiger’s Nest Monastery.

The hike was brutal — a steep trail winding through dense forests, with glimpses of the monastery appearing and disappearing like a mirage. The smell of wet earth filled my lungs, and prayer wheels lined the path, spinning softly in the breeze. My legs burned, but the thought of her kept me moving.

When we finally reached the top, the monastery clung to the cliffside like it had grown out of the rock itself. White walls, golden roofs, and a stillness that pressed against my chest. I stepped inside, the smell of butter lamps and old wood wrapping around me like a blanket.

I closed my eyes and prayed — not for answers, but for her.

We descended in silence, and as we reached the base, I saw her again. Standing far off, just beyond the treeline, her figure barely visible through the mist.

I wanted to run to her. To grab her shoulders and demand to know why she left. But my feet stayed rooted to the ground, and when I looked again, she was gone.

I never told my friends. I smiled, laughed, and pretended I had found peace in the mountains. But inside, I carried her with me — like a compass that pointed to someone I could never find.

She would always be the uncharted girl — a place I could never fully discover. And maybe some landscapes are meant to remain unexplored.