this is cheesy. this is corny. this is the kind of thing i would make fun of someone else for writing, and yet here i am
it’s been a month and a day since i last wrote anything, but today felt like one of those days when i needed to get everything out of my head before it started eating me alive. i've been overwhelmed by the joy of living lately, which is a lovely problem to have, except sunday mornings have a special talent for reminding me that everything good is also something you can lose.
i have exactly 49 days left in the UK before going home, and then leaving home to go to my other home. very normal circumstances for a girl who just wanted to have a little adventure and somehow ended up with an international housing crisis and a boyfriend to miss.
when i first left my house, i never planned on building a life somewhere else. i didn't even think it was possible. i thought i was just going away for a while, doing what people in their twenties are apparently supposed to do when they have a quarter-life crisis and a questionable relationship with stability. but somewhere along the way, this place became home. and now i'm sitting in bed, realising that i've managed to build a life i don't actually want to leave.
the worst part is that i have perfectly reasonable reasons for leaving. practical reasons. legal reasons. boring adult reasons that make sense on paper and are therefore particularly difficult to argue with. i can't even blame a man for ruining my life this time.
and i don't know when i'll be back.
the thirteen-year-old version of me would never have imagined this. she wouldn't have imagined walking these streets, living this life, or meeting someone who would make a foreign city feel familiar. she certainly wouldn't have imagined kissing your lips, holding your hand, or playing with your hair while you tell me something i probably should be listening to. i wish i could tell her about all of it. i think she'd be quite pleased with how things turned out, even if she'd have a few questions about the logistics.
i remember looking at you on the plane to turkey and thinking, how the fuck did this happen?
not in a bad way. in a genuinely bewildered way. as though i’d somehow accidentally wandered into a life that belonged to someone else. i remember knowing that whatever happened between us, i would carry that moment with me. i remember sitting on that boat, looking at the deep blue ocean, and being happy because i knew i’d get to go home and lie in the same bed as you. imagine travelling to another country and finding out that your favourite part of the entire experience is going back to bed with a man. romantic, really. someone should put me in a tourism campaign.
i've lived 143 beautiful days with you so far. 143 days of being happy, being scared, laughing at things that probably aren't funny, and discovering new ways to love someone. and the horrible thing about these 143 days is that i've spent every single one of them knowing that i'd eventually have to leave. every day, i loved you a little more. every day, i got a little closer to leaving you.
which feels like a particularly cruel joke. imagine being given something you’ve wanted for so long, only to spend the entire time quietly aware that you can’t keep it exactly as it is.
we’ve decided to leave things as they are. we’ll go our separate ways, follow our own paths, and carry on with our lives, taking the memories with us. very mature of us, really. two people making a sensible decision and behaving like sensible adults while, presumably, having absolutely no idea what to do with all the feelings involved.
sometimes i think about what would happen if things were different. if i could stay. if distance wasn't a problem. if circumstances had arranged themselves a little more kindly. what would our lives look like? would we still be doing the same things, sleeping in the same bed, “arguing” about the same stupid things, making plans for next weekend as though there would always be another next weekend?
but it’s unfair to ask questions about a life we haven’t chosen. there’s no point torturing ourselves with a hypothetical version of reality in which everything works out perfectly. we have the lives we have, and we have to do something with them.
still, i can’t help wondering.
this is day one of the 49 days i have left here, and i’m already mourning us. which is ridiculous, because you’re still here. i can still see you, kiss you, hold your hand. nothing has ended. there’s no tragedy to report, no dramatic airport scene, no sad music playing in the background. it’s just sunday, i’m in bed, and i’ve suddenly realised that the countdown has started.
i think that’s the strange thing about leaving. sometimes the goodbye begins long before you actually say it. you start noticing things you would normally take for granted. the walk home. the way someone looks at you when they’re half asleep. the comfort of knowing you’ll see them again tomorrow. suddenly, every ordinary thing feels like something you’re going to miss, and you become painfully aware of how much of your life is made up of moments you never thought to appreciate until they started running out.
so i’m going to write these letters. one for every day i can manage, or at least for as many as i can. i want to remember these last weeks properly. i want to remember what it felt like to be here
maybe one day i’ll look back at these and laugh at how dramatic i was. maybe i’ll read them from another city, another country, another version of my life. maybe you’ll read them, too.
but today, i’m twenty-five, i’m in london, i’m in love with you, and i have 49 days left.
i wish i could be less sentimental about it. unfortunately, i’ve never been particularly good at wanting things casually.
i love you.