**The Weight of Water**

Barcelona, 09:03 AM

The first drops hit my notebook as I’m scribbling in Parc de la Ciutadella—fat, warm, insistent. Around me, tourists scramble for cover, but I stay put. Let the ink bleed. Let the pages warp.

Rain in Istanbul smelled like wet stone and centuries. Here, it’s salt and diesel and the ghost of last night’s vermouth. Different, but no less alive.

Yesterday, I found myself staring at my reflection in a puddle outside MACBA. Not the composed photographer who used to angle herself for the perfect shot, but someone softer. A woman with rain-damp hair and a camera strap permanently indented on her shoulder. The kind of person who notices how raindrops make constellations on café awnings.

Claudia would call it "ablandarse"—to soften. Not weaken, but become permeable. Let the world in.

I think of Aylin’s last message: “Bazen yağmur dua gibidir.” Sometimes rain is like prayer. She’s right. There’s something sacred in surrender, in letting the sky rewrite your plans.

My phone buzzes—an editor asking if I’d like to cover a flamenco festival in Jerez next month. The old Sofia would’ve drafted three versions of a pitch before responding. Today, I type “Me encantaría” and hit send before doubt can creep in.

A street vendor offers me his umbrella. I shake my head, smiling. Let the rain do its work.

Growth isn’t always about movement. Sometimes it’s about staying still long enough to feel the weight of water, to let it remind you: you are porous. You are alive. You are becoming.

—Sofia