We move slower here. No rush, no place we need to be. Not today, at least.
The first days of fresh breaths went straight into my veins like magic. No traffic outside of my window, and my mom and dad’s living room was filled with dad’s old hits and mom’s food. My mind was filled with worries, and the big one was about if I would ever be able to leave again.
I could finally catch my breath. It’s like the marathon I ran in September kept going until that moment when I hugged them last Sunday.
But this morning as I went over to the bus stop, I saw a couple. Our age, but nothing like us. Or maybe they were exactly like us, without any of us knowing. They argued as they were walking their dogs in pouring rain. Her hair was wet, and their jackets were practical.
An hour later I saw familiar faces around town, because it’s Saturday, after all. You can’t choose which faces to see though, that’s the risk of coming home.
I’m pulling my hat down and look into the pavement, as I don’t want anyone to recognise someone who looks like me, that used to live here.
I’m longing for late evenings some place random in a city where no one knows my name. I’m craving chai’s, thank you’s and please. Dirty tubes and disgusting air. My himalayan salt lamps and rituals.
“Is it OK if I do this in English?”
– Omg, yes. Please do.
I booked a one-way ticket home on my way back.