When Kelly and I had only been together six short months, she shared her plans to journey to Africa. I tried to play it cool, feigning casual curiosity, as if I wasn’t rattled by the thought of her going so far away. She’d already conquered the Inca Trail in Peru last spring—another adventure under her belt. In a breezy tone, I asked about the height of Kilimanjaro, wondering what I’d need to scale to stay close to her. But as weeks passed and our connection deepened, I felt a pang of fear, a quiet ache that whispered of missed moments. What if, on that grand mountain, some free-spirited traveler captivated her heart? What if I lost her to a wandering stranger as fierce as she was? I tried to stay lighthearted, dropping questions like, “How much is this trip going to cost?” But in my heart, the real question echoed—“What’s the cost of letting her slip away?” So, inspired by Kelly’s adventurous spirit, I booked my own spot on that expedition to Kilimanjaro. I was going to follow her to the heights, to the edges of the world, for a chance to keep what we had growing between us. Sixteen days we spent in Tanzania, days that would change us forever. Together, we climbed, pushing past limits and catching glimpses of that bond forged in thin air and breathtaking views. And finally, at 19,340 feet, we reached Uhuru Peak, the highest point on the continent. She turned to me, breathless and vulnerable, admitting she felt chest pains. Altitude sickness. I reached into my jacket and pulled out the medicine that would steady her, but as she took it, I realized she was the one who had saved me—by daring to live life with such fearless intensity. We made our way down together, every step drawing her strength back, with me by her side. By the time we reached base camp, only five of our group of eleven had summited and returned unassisted. We were two of the five—two Americans who had climbed not just the mountain, but into each other’s lives, forever intertwined in that adventure.