The art of moving on

When I first moved to this city of smog and opportunity, I met 2 girls. Neither of them live here anymore, and soon, neither will I.

The 3 of us arrived within a few months of one another, and we found our way through sharing advice on the best way to care for your skin, the best spot for fresh vegetables, mostly through speaking through everything over many cups of tea until it all made sense. Fast forward a year later, and I’m finding vegetables on my own.

Moving away is always sad, even when it is coupled with the excitement of something new. I won’t ever be here quite like this again, and no one here will seem quite the same. I won’t seem the same. And I’ll have to relearn new street names, which roads to avoid at what times, and where the friendliest grocery store is. Soon no one will know my name, and it will be time to decide who to be all over again. There are little pockets of time in which I want to freeze it all, go back and decide differently, to stay perhaps so that we can all be us for just a little while longer.

I tell him we’ll soon have new places to stop for coffee, new words to describe our old feelings, and new people to tell it all to. It’s true, and yet it all keeps pressing down on the heart of who I’ve become here. Soon she’ll be gone, and I’ll be someone new and it won’t feel so big. It is both comforting, and the reason I don’t want to go.

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