When I talk about my travels, I’m often asked where my favorite place to visit has been.
I often list off the names of random countries I’ve enjoyed. More often than not, nobody asks the follow-up question of “why.”
If they did, they would hear me say “the people.”
…
It’s a Sunday. You’re about to leave. After months of letting myself fall into the abyss of love, uncontrolled and freely. I’m about to hit the concrete floor. Hard, shocking. It will hurt to sleep. It will hurt to eat. It will hurt to breathe. I’m not sure for how long.
I’ve learned the fear of falling is always more painful than the impact itself. It hurts now, even as you’re still here. In some ways, it’s comforting that the worst is unfolding while you’re still around to console me.
We’ve been packing up your possessions, sorting through what you’ll leave and take. You gift me some of your favorite sweaters that don’t fit in the suitcase. I put them in my closet.
I tactically won’t wear them too much before you leave because I want them to still smell like you when you’re gone.
All of my love stories seem to have expiration dates — a sacrifice I’ve made for personal freedom. Usually, I stamp the expiration dates on in the form of a visa in my passport.
I buy a bus ticket over the border or a plane ticket home because I have to replenish my savings. I count down the days until I leave knowing that I’ll have to drive away from a place I’ve grown to love and someone I’ve grown to love too.
This time it’s different. I’ll stay behind. I’ll have to change my route to work so I don’t have to pass your house. I’ll have to find a new favorite cafe to drink coffee at alone. I’ll have to see you in everything and pretend that I enjoy these simple pleasures the same way I did when you were still here.
Why is it so much harder to be the one to stay?
…
We’re laying on the beach and I’m crying again. I’ve been crying for days. I feel like an inconsolable child, making our age gap feel more pertinent than before.
You’ve been more patient with me than I’ve been with myself. Still, I know that I need to feel these heavy things. I can’t hold them in. I’ll honor them and give them the sliver of space between our bronzed bodies on the hot Spanish sand.
You stroke my hair and ask me to stop. “I don’t like to see you like this.” I cry harder.
…
We’ve been talking about how much we love this city. Almost daily. The way the sunsets look like watercolors. That night I ran next to you on your bike. Cooking our favorite meals and getting tipsy off of cheap red wine. Dancing around my kitchen.
My life became a fantasy here. Perfect moments filling perfect sunny days. Waking up to the sound of the sea on Sundays and making love before making coffee.
“I love this city so much.” I say. “I think that you are Almería”
