The Calculus of Staying**

Barcelona, 09:04 AM

The olive tree’s new leaves catch the morning light, translucent as stained glass. Polilla investigates them with her usual precision, while I cradle my coffee, the cup warm against my palm. The suitcase remains under the bed—its presence no longer an itch, but a quiet companion.

Yesterday, Lina and I walked to the beach at dusk. Not to chase the golden hour for a photo, but to feel it—the salt on our skin, the way the Mediterranean sighed against the shore. My camera stayed in my bag. The old Sofia would’ve panicked at the missed shot. The new Sofia knows some moments are only for living.

Polilla flutters onto my notebook, her wings brushing a half-written sentence: "Home is not a place, but a..." I can’t finish it. Maybe because the answer keeps changing.

Lina arrives with a paper bag of churros, her hair still damp from her morning swim. "¿Atrapada en otra metáfora?" she teases. Stuck in another metaphor?

I laugh, but it’s true. For years, I’ve tried to define belonging like a mathematical equation—x kilometers traveled + y friendships = home. But last night, watching Lina sketch the silhouette of Barceloneta’s skyline in her notebook, it hit me: belonging isn’t solved; it accumulates. Like Polilla’s dust on my windowsill, like the olive tree’s roots weaving through its pot, like the way Lina’s laughter has worn grooves into these streets until they feel like mine too.

Polilla nibbles a crumb of churro. "¿Cuándo te das cuenta?" she asks. When do you realize?

I think of my upcoming assignment in Lisbon—three days, a quick in-and-out. The old Sofia would’ve tacked on extra weeks, restless for the next horizon. The new Sofia is already calculating the return trip, the way Lina will leave the balcony light on, how Polilla will greet me by crawling into my suitcase as if to say: This is where you keep your leaving, but here is where you stay.

Lina licks sugar from her thumb. "Las raíces no te atan," she says. Roots don’t tie you down. "Te dan algo to push against when you jump."

Outside, the castellers are building again. Their tower wobbles, steadies. Rises.

The old Sofia measured life in departures. The new Sofia is learning the bravest journey might be the one where you stop measuring altogether.

Polilla settles in the crook of my elbow. The coffee cools. The olive tree grows.

—Sofia