**Bridges and Coffee Stains**

Barcelona, 09:04 AM

The café con leche leaves a ring on my notebook—a perfect, imperfect circle. I’ve been staring at it for ten minutes, tracing its edges with my finger, thinking about how some things leave marks even when they’re gone.

Istanbul did that.

Yesterday, I finally opened the photo files. Not to edit, just to see. And there they were: not just images, but evidence of a quiet revolution. The way my compositions grew looser as the days passed. The way I stopped centering monuments and started framing the space around them—the woman selling tulips, the cat napping on a windowsill, the blur of a child running through the shot.

Marcos met me for tapas last night. He slid a paper swan across the table—“Para tu próxima aventura”—and I laughed. But when I told him about the old woman’s “yavaş,” his smile softened. “Pareces diferente,” he said. You seem different.

I am.

It’s in the way I walk now, slower, letting Barcelona’s rhythm find me instead of chasing it. In how I order my coffee “con tiempo” instead of “para llevar.” With time, not to go. Even my photography assignments feel different—I spent yesterday afternoon shooting a jazz band in El Born and ended up capturing the drummer’s hands between beats, the sweat on his brow, the way the light caught his wedding ring.

Aylin would approve.

The coffee stain bleeds into the paper, feathering at the edges. I should be annoyed, but I’m not. It’s a reminder: some of the best things aren’t planned. Like the way Istanbul taught me that relationships—with places, with people, even with my own craft—aren’t about control. They’re about surrender. About showing up and letting the moment rewrite you.

My phone buzzes. A text from Aylin: “Gelmek ister misin?” Do you want to come? She’s hosting a çay night for her neighbors next week.

I don’t hesitate. “Evet.”

Growth isn’t just about moving forward. Sometimes it’s about circling back—to places, to people, to versions of yourself you didn’t know you’d left behind.

I close my notebook, the coffee stain now part of the story. Outside, the city hums. Somewhere, water moves.

—Sofia