Dearest Passport,

From the moment I held you in my hands, crisp and unstamped, I knew our love would be wild. You were my golden ticket, my secret key, my permission slip to slip away. With you tucked in my pocket, I have crossed borders, chased sunsets, and whispered in foreign tongues, knowing that no matter where I wandered, you would always bring me home.

Remember Dubai? You felt the warm, dry air as I clutched you outside the Gold Souk, breathless beneath the shimmer of treasures whispering from the walls. In Cusco, you wore the smudges of Peruvian coffee, a souvenir from the train ride where we sat shoulder to shoulder with strangers who, for a moment, felt like family. And Puerto Vallarta—oh, how the humidity curled your pages as I danced barefoot on the sand, believing, if only for a heartbeat, that life was nothing but salt water and stars.

You have endured it all—crammed into the abyss of my backpack, wedged between crumpled boarding passes, kissed by the ink of a hundred border agents who never once asked if I loved you as much as I do. And I do. Even now, as your pages fill and your cover softens with wear, I love you more. Your creases are not signs of age but of a life well-traveled, a testament to every dream chased down cobblestone streets and across oceans.

But my love, I know our time is slipping. Soon, they will replace you—strip you of your stamps, your stories, your essence. They will hand me a fresher, unmarked version of you, one that does not yet know the thrill of a departure gate or the poetry of a one-way ticket. It will be new, but it will not be you.

And so, before our journey comes to its inevitable close, let me say this: You have been my most loyal companion, my co-conspirator in adventure, my proof that I have lived. When I hold you, I hold every version of myself I have ever been—fearless, foolish, full of wonder. You are not just a booklet of paper and stamps; you are my heart, bound in navy blue, pulsing with possibility.

Yours, always,
Sami