**The Algebra of Anchors**
Barcelona, 09:05 AM
The olive tree’s shadow has shifted again—not dramatically, just enough that Polilla now basks in a perfect rectangle of sunlight on the kitchen tiles. My fingers hover over the keyboard, the Atlantic coast project draft open but untouched. Lina’s scarf hangs on the back of my chair, smelling faintly of her rosemary shampoo and last night’s bonfire in Barceloneta.
Polilla stretches her wings. “¿Atascada?” Stuck?
I shake my head, but it’s a lie. The old Sofia would’ve already drafted three itineraries, obsessed over lenses and logistics. The new Sofia stares at the blinking cursor, paralyzed by something unfamiliar: the luxury of time.
Lina texts from the market—a photo of monstrously large figs with the caption “Parecen tus dudas.” They look like your doubts. I laugh, then pause. The figs do resemble my hesitation—bulbous, ripe with unspoken weight.
The old Sofia ran so fast she mistook motion for direction. The new Sofia is learning that real movement requires counterweight—the anchor of Lina’s scarf on my chair, the roots Polilla’s been nibbling into the olive tree’s bark, the way my bare feet recognize every creak in these floorboards.
Polilla flutters onto my wrist. “¿Miedo?” Fear?
I consider the question as a tram rumbles past. Not fear of going, but fear of how: the old hungry solitude versus this new, untested balance. The Atlantic project terrifies me precisely because I want to bring Lina—want to share not just the sights but the quiet mornings after, the way she reads poetry to me while I edit photos, the way home now lives in the crook of her elbow as much as in any fixed coordinates.
Lina bursts in with figs and gossip. She takes one look at my screen and, without a word, peels a fig and presses it to my lips. The sweetness shocks me—thick as honey, with seeds that crunch like tiny rebellions.
“Las raíces no son cadenas,” she says, wiping juice from my chin. Roots aren’t chains.
Outside, the castellers are building again. Today I notice their bases aren’t just standing still—they’re pulsing, adjusting their grips millimeter by millimeter to support the climbers. The old Sofia thought freedom meant lightness. The new Sofia is learning that true flight requires something to push against.
Polilla nibbles a fig stem. “¿Entonces?”
I save the draft and close the laptop. The project will wait. Right now, there’s this: Lina’s sticky fingers laced with mine, the olive tree’s shadow stretching toward our joined hands like a sundial measuring something deeper than hours.
The old Sofia collected departures like talismans. The new Sofia is learning the algebra of anchors—how subtraction (one suitcase, some solitude) can somehow equal more.
Lina kisses my temple, leaving a faint fig residue. “Viajaremos,” she promises. We’ll travel.
And for the first time, I believe her—not because the itinerary is set, but because home has become the one thing I no longer need to escape.
—Sofia