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"What you're doing is really brave", my friend had texted as I sat in a cafe at Heathrow airport, my hot chocolate sitting untouched amongst coffee rings and spilt sugar, the air full of announcements and shrieking children. I was flying to Mexico to spend ten days exploring the Yucatán peninsula with a man I had recently met. We'd got on well; maybe this would work. Living on opposite sides of the Atlantic still seemed our biggest obstacle. Those first days we walked the beaches, sun-warmed sea lapping at fine white sand raked free of seaweed, watched squadrons of pelicans cruise by and craned our necks at the Danza de los Voladores - the Dance of the Flyers. Their red and white outfits dazzled against the clear blue sky as they span round and round above us in an ancient ritual now performed for tourists and tips. We chatted easily about our families, our lives, our plans, and my previous relationships. After dark we wandered between food stalls, the starchy smell of tamales mixed with grilled corn on the cob and the bubbling oil of churros fryers. Full of street food, fingers sticky with dulce de leche, we watched a floodlit basketball tournament unfold at breakneck speed. Bats raced after moths under the bright lights. The energetic heckling of the crowd matched the speed of the game and he laughed as he translated the insults. I didn't yet know to ask about his marriages. Upon finding ourselves locked out of our hotel one evening, we watched the rush hour traffic ramp up from a nearby bench. Mopeds whizzed by carrying entire families: babies on laps, toddlers gripped between knees and older kids holding on at the back. Bags and boxes were balanced and text messages returned mid-junction. This was no place for hesitation. We were totally gripped, flinching at the closest near misses then laughing hysterically when, by some miracle, they emerged unscathed and unfazed. Our sides ached as we were finally let back in to our room. There, instead of saying the wrong thing, I didn't say the right thing. He went quiet and only came to bed later, with much theatrical tossing and turning. In the morning, he laughed off my criticism of his childish strop, there'd been no drama he assured me. Shifting truths weaving through the traffic. Screams and splashes echoed around the goldfish bowl of the cenoté, a flooded limestone sinkhole with circular views of the sky above. The cool walls dripped with ferns and vines, and striped fish darted to the surface before vanishing back into the depths. Just a glimpse then they were gone. Or maybe they'd been leaves, or shadows. Between the shouts, water trickled down the weathered limestone with a steady, relaxing plip plop. Relaxing, that is, until used relentlessly. Wielded unkindly that same dripping could drive a person to distraction, bend their will and set their mind adrift. We jumped in again, rushing back to the surface in a vortex of bubbles and laughter. As time ticked by, we squeezed even more into our days. Deposited amidst the hiss and splutter of laden coaches, we followed the flow of visitors, cameras strung across bodies, along roads lined with souvenir stalls to the Mayan metropolis of Chichén Itzá. Once the heart of an ancient civilisation, it was now a mass of selfie sticks and discarded plastic bottles; tarnished by people whose intentions I could not decipher. How to tell mismanaged curiosity from deliberate contempt, and kindness from cruelty? Emotional exhaustion shadowed physical exhaustion as repetitive discussions ate into the night, the what ifs and whys of imagined scenarios. Then our time was up. Back in the airport with sun-bleached hair and new and exciting memories interspersed with flashes of something else, like the scene of the accident from our first night: taxis ferrying eager tourists to the clubs and resorts of Cancun, then blue flashing lights against the palm trees and a severed leg on the warm tarmac. With the mooring lines of my mind already working free, that's where this story should have ended.