This time I’m writing, not to an ex-lover or my current beau, but a place. It’s a love letter nonetheless.
To the city that saved me, the city held my hand the moment I was going to let go, this is me writing to you. This is me being eternally grateful to you. This is me being full of love for you. This is me promising you I’ll come back when I feel like running away again, when I need to find a temporary home in an unfamiliar setting.
A solo trip at a time when I desperately wanted a hand to hold, afraid of the loneliness creeping in again, didn’t seem like the brightest idea.
An empty hotel room in a city where unfamiliar faces rush past me on the streets, barely noticing me. Just the idea of it was terrifying; being alone is terrifying.
But being alone in a new city sounded better than being alone in a place I’ve grown to love, but never truly feel a part of. Blurred crowds pushing past me sounded better than lying on the same bed as said beau, and him not noticing that I’m breaking. I needed an escape; I needed to be on my own, to stop the loneliness from residing within. I needed to prove to myself I’m all I need – just me, and a plane ticket.
I walked and walked, with nowhere in mind. I’d say I was lost most of the time, but I had nowhere to be anyway. I read two books in the hotel room, ate by myself and explored the city by myself. Oh, how beautiful it is to feel alone in a big city.
I feel it whisper,” it’s just us today, just me and you”, through the embrace of the wind. And in the moment, it was just us.
Thus, it began. The self-discovery, the realizations, and finally getting back in touch with the version of myself that had become a mere stranger.
I held her for so long, in hopes that we’ll merge into one again. I begged her to come home.