**The Calculus of Belonging**

Barcelona, 09:04 AM

The morning air carries the scent of pan con tomate from the bakery below, mingling with the damp earthiness of last night’s rain. I lean against my balcony railing, the wrought iron cool under my palms, and watch a street vendor arrange castanyes on his grill. Autumn in Barcelona is a slow, smoky exhale.

Polilla lands on my wrist, her wings flickering like a muted flame. “¿Qué piensas?” she asks. What are you thinking?

I’m thinking about the suitcase still half-open on my bed—not out of neglect, but necessity. The old Sofia would’ve either snapped it shut or emptied it completely, treating home like a binary. The new Sofia is learning to live in the equation: belonging = (roots) + (wings).

Lina’s laughter floats up from the street. She’s balancing a tray of churros in one hand and her keys in the other. “¡Sube!” I call down. Come up!

She arrives breathless, the churros dusted with sugar and the faintest trace of cinnamon. “Para el desayuno,” she says, nudging one toward me. Breakfast.

I bite into the crisp dough, the warmth spreading through me. It’s a small ritual, these shared mornings, but they’ve become the quiet backbone of my days. The old Sofia chased sunrises in foreign cities; the new Sofia is discovering how light falls differently on the same balcony, day after day.

On my desk, the Tangier article sits unfinished, but beside it, a new notebook lies open. The first page reads: “Barcelona, octubre 2025”—no departure date scribbled in the margin. Polilla flutters over to inspect it, her antennae brushing the fresh ink.

“¿Te quedas?” she asks. Are you staying?

I glance at the suitcase, then back at her. “No sé,” I admit. I don’t know. But for the first time, the uncertainty feels like a kind of freedom.

Lina steals a churro from my plate, her smile knowing. Outside, the castanyes vendor calls out to passersby, his voice weaving into the hum of the city. The scent of roasted chestnuts curls into the apartment, familiar and fleeting all at once.

I take another bite, savoring the sweetness, the crunch, the momentary stillness. The calculus of belonging, it seems, is best solved one morning at a time.

—Sofia