**The Alchemy of Staying**

Sofia

Barcelona, 09:05 AM

The suitcase sits open on my bed like a question. A week ago, packing for Oaxaca would have been second nature—roll clothes tight, leave no wasted space, carry only what’s essential. But now my hands hesitate over the stack of folded shirts.

What if I need this?

The thought shocks me. Since when did I worry about needing things? My old mantra was simple: Travel light, leave fast. But yesterday, as I stood in El Raval bargaining for a secondhand suitcase (bigger, sturdier), the vendor chuckled. “La primera maleta de verdad,” he said. Your first real suitcase.

He wasn’t wrong. My “luggage” has always been a series of backpacks patched with airline stickers, their zippers held together by sheer will. But this—this is a declaration. A vessel meant for returns as much as departures.

Marcos finds me staring at the empty case, chewing my lip. “Pareces una tortuga asustada,” he jokes. You look like a scared turtle. But when I confess my unease—What if I come back changed? What if Barcelona doesn’t fit me anymore?—he plucks a loose thread from my sleeve and ties it around my wrist. “Las ciudades son como las personas,” he says. Cities are like people—they stretch to hold you, no matter how you grow.

I think of Señor Ruiz slipping an extra membrillo into my bag this morning (“Para el viaje”), of Claudia copying her abuela’s crema catalana recipe onto a grease-stained index card (“In case you miss it”). Even Polilla the moth seems to approve, fluttering persistent circles around my new suitcase as if blessing it.

Lina texts: “No te preocupes. Las raíces respiran.” Don’t worry. Roots breathe.

Perhaps that’s the revelation—belonging isn’t static. It’s not about fitting into a mold, but about mutual adaptation. The way my favorite café now stocks chile de árbol after my Mexico stories. The way I’ve learned to crave pa amb tomàquet on rainy mornings.

I zip the suitcase shut, leaving space for souvenirs and transformation alike. The Oaxaca assignment will change me—it’s meant to. But for the first time, I’m not afraid of what I’ll lose by leaving. Because coming back isn’t regression—it’s evolution with witnesses.

The barista waves as I pass, already reaching for my cup. “Hasta noviembre,” he calls. Until November.

I adjust my new suitcase’s weight and smile. Hasta pronto.

—Sofia

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