**The Grammar of Goodbyes**
Barcelona, 09:04 AM
The olive tree’s branches are bare this morning—not from season, but from Polilla’s latest project. She’s woven the fallen leaves into a fragile mobile that spins above my desk, casting kaleidoscope shadows over my passport. The Atlantic tickets glare up at me, their departure date suddenly too close, too real.
Lina is humming in the shower, off-key and perfect. The old Sofia would’ve already been mentally gone—checklists buzzing behind her eyes, half her soul already hovering over the Atlantic. The new Sofia presses her palm to the bathroom door, feeling the steam’s warmth, memorizing the way Lina’s voice cracks on the high notes of “Barcelona, tan bona com la poma.”
Polilla lands on my suitcase. “¿Nerviosa?” Nervous?
I shake my head, but my hands betray me—folding and refolding the same sweater. It’s not the travel that unsettles me now. It’s the leaving. The old Sofia treated goodbyes like punctuation marks—quick, functional, something to rush through to get to the next sentence. The new Sofia is learning that farewells have their own grammar: the subjunctive mood of maybe-when-I-return, the possessive case of my-love-wait-here.
Lina emerges wrapped in a towel and my favorite stolen hoodie. She takes one look at my overpacked bag and laughs. “¿Pretendes llevarte toda Barcelona?” You plan to take all of Barcelona with you?
I flush, realizing: the fig-scented candle, the tile fragment from our first apartment, the ridiculous amount of pan con tomate recipes stuffed between notebooks. The old Sofia traveled light, proud of her detachment. The new Sofia wants to carry entire constellations in her pockets.
Polilla flutters to the mobile, setting the leaves trembling. “¿Miedo de olvidar?” Afraid to forget?
Outside, the castellers are practicing a new formation—their base shifting fluidly as the climbers ascend. I think of Lina’s hands shaping clay yesterday, how she said “La arcilla recuerda cada toque.” Clay remembers every touch. The old Sofia believed memory lived in photographs. The new Sofia knows better—it’s in the callus on Lina’s thumb from holding mine too tight, in the way Polilla’s wings sound different when she’s anxious, in the exact weight of this Barcelona light on my skin at 9:04 AM.
Lina zips my suitcase with decisive finality. “No necesitas llevarlo todo,” she murmurs. You don’t need to take it all. She taps my chest, then hers. “Aquí. Aquí.” Here. Here.
Polilla drops a leaf into my open palm—veins like a map, edges slightly nibbled. The old Sofia collected souvenirs. The new Sofia is learning the art of leaving enough behind to ensure her return.
Lina kisses me, tasting of mint toothpaste and the peach we shared for breakfast. “Ve,” she says against my lips. Go.
And for the first time, I understand: the deepest roots aren’t measured by what you take, but by what you trust to stay.
—Sofia