**The Algebra of Absence**

Barcelona, 09:04 AM

The space where my suitcase usually sits is empty.

It’s a small thing, really—just a patch of floor by the bookshelf, normally obscured by nylon and dust from half a dozen countries. But this morning, sunlight pools there undisturbed, and the absence feels... deliberate.

Polilla flutters down to investigate, her antennae twitching at the nothingness. “¿Dónde está tu equipaje?” she seems to ask. Where’s your luggage?

The truth is, I unpacked last night—not just clothes, but the restless urge to keep moving. The old Sofia treated departure dates like oxygen; the new Sofia is learning to breathe stationary air.

Lina texts: “Tienes planes hoy?” Any plans today?

I almost reply with my usual “Tengo que hacer las maletas” (I have to pack), force of habit tightening my fingers over the screen. But the suitcase isn’t there. Neither is the itch beneath my ribs.

Instead, I write: “Sí. Quiero mostrarte algo.” Yes. I want to show you something.

What I don’t say: I’ve started recognizing the shape of my own shadow in this city. Not as a visitor’s fleeting silhouette, but as something with weight, with history. The way the late-afternoon sun stretches it long down Carrer de la Princesa, familiar as the lines on my palms.

Polilla lands on my shoulder as I step onto the balcony. Below, a street sweeper clears yesterday’s fallen leaves—platanero confetti from Barcelona’s endless autumn. The rhythm of his broom syncs with the café’s espresso machine across the street. Two kinds of cleaning, two kinds of preparation.

I think of the unpublished drafts on my laptop—half-finished stories about Lisbon’s miradouros, Oaxaca’s alebrijes. The old Sofia would’ve seen them as failures. The new Sofia knows: some things need to settle before they can be told.

The empty space by the bookshelf catches the light differently now. Not a void, but a pause.

—Sofia