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The greatest love stories aren't always centre stage. That's something I learnt very recently. That heart pounding, blood thumping, all consuming love usually gets all the Hollywood treatment. Exhilaration dressed up as lust. But behind the scenes, in the background, a deeper, earthy, soul surrendering love exists, propping us all up without our knowledge. It keeps our feet beating the same paths as generations gone, stashing money into savings as often as we can, working shifts to pay for miles. This love lets us open ourselves to newcomers, it lets us share a camp-side fire, change a tyre or leave a guidebook for our hostel-bed successor. The open road and crashing waves calls to us from across vast planes of tangled concrete and climbing towers. In dreary offices with tired carpets and a sunset replaced by strip-lights, we wait. A siren call that echoes across the oceans and pulls our thoughts spiraling in strands of golden light. Before we knew of this love, we knew of our home. Of roots dug shallowly in an earth still fresh from breaking. We carried our bags in corridors meant for learning but not for exploring. We readied ourselves with books brimming with tales of circumnavigation and polar expeditions. We weren't to know that this love was not fleeting. Some know her as Wanderlust, some dismiss her as Itchy Feet, but we know her more intimately. From our first launch into the rolling expanse, she would settle into the chambers of our rib-cages, nestle next to our hearts, always there, ever present. She's powerful and all-consuming. Cultures of spice, salt, sand and snow, mingle into her fibers, spinning fabrics of memory and lore. I went blindly into my first exploration, with a cockiness that I could skim the surface, float through the grit and come home, a holiday disguised as adventure for the girl who didn't think she needed more. I wasn't to know she would pull me in, wrapping desire around my waist and cinching it in, with glacial breathes and sea salt spray. Enraptured and enthralled, I felt her touch skim my skin as my plane descended over craggy tops and winding roads. Goosebumps shot up my neck and made my shoulders rise, white horses racing over black waves. But of course, you know this. I saw her claim you too. Across the aisle and with a curve to your back as you ducked down to peer out of the window. Your brows raised and your hand tightened into an excited fist. Travel has called to us, and oh, how we answered.