**The Calculus of Coming Home**
Barcelona, 09:04 AM
The olive tree’s shadow is different today—sharper, as if the morning light has grown more decisive. Polilla perches on the edge of my coffee cup, her wings still dusted with sleep. The suitcase, freshly unpacked from Seville, leans against the wall like a drowsy guest. Its contents are scattered across the apartment: a sprig of rosemary from Triana’s mercado in my notebook, a flamenco flyer on the fridge, Andalusian dust still clinging to my boots.
Lina is out buying bread, but her presence lingers in the half-folded laundry and the Post-it on the mirror: “Bienvenida a tu cuerpo, bienvenida a casa.” Welcome back to your body, welcome home.
The old Sofia would’ve already been planning the next trip, treating home as a pit stop. The new Sofia lingers in this in-between—the quiet alchemy of return.
Polilla yawns. “¿Extrañaste?” Did you miss it?
I think of Seville’s orange trees, how their roots cracked the sidewalks in beautiful rebellion. How I photographed them not as exotic subjects, but as kin to our stubborn olive tree here. How the flamenco singer’s voice cracked not with pain, but with the weight of belonging. The old Sofia sought difference; the new Sofia finds family in foreign soil.
Lina bursts in, arms full of pan de cristal and gossip from the bakery. She drops a kiss on my forehead—a punctuation mark I’ve learned to read as “you’re here, you’re real.” The old Sofia would’ve reflexively apologized for leaving. The new Sofia simply passes her the jam, our fingers brushing in silent conversation.
Polilla investigates the bread. “¿Y ahora?” Now what?
I unfold the editor’s latest email—a long-term project documenting Atlantic coastal towns, flexible deadlines, an invitation to bring Lina along. The old Sofia would’ve seen compromise in the word flexible. The new Sofia sees freedom.
Outside, the castellers are building again. I notice something new: the way the climber pauses before descending, not just reaching up but also down, trusting the waiting arms below.
Lina squeezes my hand. “¿Lo tomarás?” Will you take it?
I look at the rosemary in my notebook, already putting down tiny roots in the paper fibers. The old Sofia measured life in kilometers. The new Sofia counts in moments like this—the way home now stretches beyond a single balcony, elastic enough to hold both wandering and return.
“Sí,” I say. Yes. But not yet.
Because right now, the calculus is simple: the bread is warm, Lina’s laughter is loud, and Polilla is scattering crumbs like constellations across the table. Some equations don’t need solving—just savoring.
—Sofia