For when the pin lands in the past

A couple of weeks before leaving Vilnius, I found myself cloaked in quiet but persistent anxiety about my imminent move back home. I was doing well, moving through a rhythm I had carved out, gently maximizing the time and space I had left of my summer in Europe. Part of me recognized the temporariness of that setup (which was why I had my guard halfway up the entire time), but I was more than happy to indulge in the unfamiliarity and excitement of it all.

There were days when the wind felt too good against my skin, I forgot how painful existing used to be. How, not too long ago, it felt like life itself was falling through the cracks. I knew I was healing, rebuilding my life back up (and gladly so). It was a gift I had prayed and prayed and prayed for. One I promised never to take for granted.

“I think I’m ready to go back. I really miss my friends.” This had been my default answer when asked about how I felt about this chapter of my life closing. Of course, the doubt and fear that came with knowing I was soon to return to a place where everything reminds of someone was shared only to my most trusted friends, those who knew how to read my rehearsed responses. “That’s totally normal. You escaped to another continent during the worst part and managed to get better. But I think you’ll be fine even after coming back. Your head has always been stronger than your heart.”

When I say I’m doing well, it is not performative. I’m okay in every sense of the word - eating well, sleeping through the night (except the last few nights of jet lag), laughing a little louder and easier. The days I once merely tried to survive turned into days I look forward to, filled with plans of saying goodbye to new friends, buying gifts and reuniting with those waiting for me here at home. I picked up so many new interests, some may even argue I’m thriving.

I suspect distance may have been the main proponent in my survival. But between unpacking and packing my many suitcases with much struggle, I started waking up in new cities excited to explore, not just to unload. I found myself leaning into little moments, trying to memorize fragments of the life I’ve been so fortunate to experience on my own, instead of trying to keep hold of what I had already lost. When I write you down, I keep you here.

Living intentionally, I knew I was becoming whole again.

People speak of moving on as though it’s a natural progression, but grief itself does not honor a finish line. Even after all the boxes get ticked, you will find yourself sitting in bed one evening, heart heavy and mind cloudy. In these moments, it’s important to give yourself grace to be still. Not to go back, just to remember.

“Let’s hang out tomorrow if you’re free. I feel a little lost and confused, I don’t want to be alone.” I say that I knew what to expect upon my return. Self-awareness has always been my strong suit. But insight doesn’t equal immunity. The thoughts sneak in like bad weather - forecasted, but not to its full extent. It didn’t help that heavy rain has nearly submerged the entire Metropolitan Manila and its surrounding areas since I arrived Saturday night. Three years ago, under the same weather conditions, we started going out more often. First for rainy day snacks, then for everything else. This is the curse of my sharp memory. All I do is remember.

I began ordering furnitures for my room even before the date of my flight back. Partly due to post-Euro taste shift, partly because every corner of the old place is haunted by ghosts of that person. Almost everything I was gifted throughout our years together are packed away (safely - for future use; but still out of sight). The entire space looks different now, but there have been brief moments in the last few days when I could still feel his presence here. It’s not muscle memory, it’s something less - like the subconscious recalling something the mind has already laid to rest.

If there’s one thing I learned from months of scraping the bottom of my strength barrel, it’s that moments of weakness don’t mean regression. They are simply a few shakes that the core is fully capable to withstand. Because even when the seas are calm, grief - or whatever residue a love worth remembering leaves behind - sneaks into the ship with you from time to time.

Sometimes, the map folds in on itself. The past overlays the present like a transparent film.

I’m walking through Graben St. in Vienna and think about how just a few months back, we were walking hand in hand along the streets of Akihabara, slightly shivering in the cold but fully aware and in awe of our surroundings - neon lights, fast cars, clean air - completely different from here. You, making jokes about the equal beauty and strangeness of it all. Me, giggling not because of the joke but because of how happy I was to finally be able to do these things with you. I waited so long for it to finally be our turn to travel together.

Walking five kilometers to Piazza San Marco in Venezia, slightly shocked about the extreme weather, I think about how I would have made sure to pack very dark sunglasses if you were here (to make sure you don’t get a migraine from the sun). But you’re not here and you won’t be. At least not with me.

Still, I try very hard to think of these moments not as setbacks, but as fond reminders. Reverberations. Proof that I loved fully, and that I carry that love in the architecture of this new person I’ve become. For all the best reasons, I like to believe I am no longer the same person I was with you. I am here, finding my footing. Softer, more intentional. There is both peace and triumph in that.

Travel teaches you this too - that even the journey of a lifetime requires recalibration. You will get distracted, lost. You will miss trains, lose luggage, book terrible hotels, even miss a few spots. But you keep going. You keep moving. Because the reward is not waiting upon arrival. It’s in learning to adapt, to reorient, to continue walking even when the path becomes foggy. Your destination isn’t always the end. Thank God for that.

So these brief moments of confusion, I no longer fight against. I leave space for it to set; not to dwell, but simply to let past. I remain steadfast in the knowledge that I’ve made it this far. There is no limit to where I can go.

So come find me. Find me in a hostel perched on a mountain in Grindelwald, looking at the stars long after the last cable car stopped running. Find me in an Irish pub in Oslo, where the conversations are so good, I will not even complain about the wine that tastes like piss. Find me in Paris, not recognizing any street or landmark, completely occupied with visually devouring every Renoir and Sisley like my life depends on it. Heck, find me in the sea of people trying to find love in Casa Giulietta in Verona.

Find me in a new city, eyes filled with wonder. Not necessarily for you, not yet, but for everything that lies ahead.

If you want to, find me at home, where a part of my heart will always be. We can change the narrative of this place, you and me.

Happiness is never waiting in the next relationship, job or city. Happiness is where you are now or nowhere at all.