One,
two,
three...
I count—not to calm myself, but to stop from losing my mind.
Eight years have passed since I left, and coming back feels like time hit the pause button. Everything’s the same and yet wildly different. People keep moving forward, as though the clock's on fast-forward, but I, stuck in reverse, take a step back. While everyone rushes ahead, I stand still, like a memory that just won’t let go.
The emotions I had when I crossed the ocean and stepped into a new life come rushing back the moment my feet touch this soil. It’s like I’ve walked into a thick fog, and suddenly, I don’t know who I am anymore. Or maybe it’s the opposite—I see myself more clearly than ever, and it takes my breath away. The reflection staring back at me feels like a stranger. Each choice I made, each choice I didn’t make, feels like a missed step, a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.
Time keeps ticking:
TICK
TOCK
TICK
TOCK.
Almost thirty, and what do I have to show for it? No husband. No kids. No success.
TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.
By thirty, a woman’s supposed to have it all—husband, kids, success—like her worth is somehow tied to these milestones. She should know exactly where she stands, with whom, and what she’s done by now. But me?
I’m just drifting, not even sure what I want anymore. Berlin, so far away and so different, almost feels like a story I made up. A dream that’s fading. And here, in this place I used to call home, my life is reduced to these two months of waiting—my story on pause.
And the man I thought was the one? He’s about to marry someone else. In Berlin, he’s just a shadow, a faint echo of something that used to be. But here, in this city, my body still longs for him, for a moment, for a fleeting glance on any random corner. But he’s moved on. Built a life.
Eight years may seem like forever, but coming back feels like stepping straight into my past, as though my present never really happened. Nothing’s changed here—same house, same streets, same faces, same conversations. Yet, it’s all different. Some were born. Others have gone. It’s the same, but somehow unrecognizable.
I slip into daydreams, imagining he’ll call, that we’ll pick up where we left off, just like in the romantic comedies, where we’ll realize we were meant for each other all along . But reality, cold and silent, reminds me that I no longer want to live here—and that I am replaceable. He’s in love with someone else, just as I was, not so long ago, in Berlin.
Why do I keep holding on to this idea of being the chosen one? Why do I crave a life so far removed from the one I chose for myself? Maybe my choices were just escapes. But in running away, I found myself. And here, he haunts me. If I leave, he disappears. Just like the memories we built, fading as quickly as they came.
Maybe that’s it—this slow, fragmented grief that gnaws at me. And maybe, today, I’m no longer even a memory to him. I stand here, stuck between writing or staying quiet, calling or not. I won’t call, of course. He’s with someone now, and what do I have to offer? A pile of regrets, maybe. Yet, even with all of that, I would still choose to be on the other side of the world, with all the choices I’ve made.
*AI generated image