**The Calculus of Belonging**
Barcelona, 09:04 AM
The olive tree wears Polilla’s silk highways like a crown this morning, each thread trembling with the weight of dew. My camera is slung around my neck, but the lens cap stays on. Lina’s voice drifts in from the balcony, arguing with the espresso machine in a mix of Catalan and affectionate profanity.
Polilla lands on my shoulder, her wings brushing my cheek. “¿Pensando?” Thinking?
I nod. The old Sofia would’ve already been out the door, chasing the perfect shot of the castellers warming up in Plaça Sant Jaume. The new Sofia lingers, tracing the steam from Lina’s failed espresso attempt—how it curls like the question mark Polilla just left hanging in the air.
The Atlantic project is done, published, praised. But the quiet after feels different this time. Not an emptiness to fill with the next assignment, but a space humming with possibility. The old Sofia measured success in bylines and borders crossed. The new Sofia is learning to measure it in the way Lina’s laughter syncs with the espresso machine’s final, victorious hiss.
Polilla flicks her antennae toward my open notebook. “¿Nuevo proyecto?” New project?
I glance at the page. It’s not an pitch to NatGeo or a flight itinerary. Just a list: mercado de flores, azulejos rotos en el parque, el sonido de Lina amasando pan a las 6am. The old Sofia collected stories to send out into the world. The new Sofia is learning to collect moments to anchor her in it.
Lina shoves a miraculously successful cortado into my hands. “Deja de mirar el cuaderno y mira esto.” Stop looking at the notebook and look at this. She points to the balcony railing, where two sparrows are bickering over a crust of bread. The light hits their wings at the exact angle that used to make me reach for my camera. Now I reach for Lina’s hand instead.
Polilla buzzes approvingly. “¿Menos fotos, más vida?” Fewer photos, more life?
Outside, the castellers are shouting directions, their human tower swaying but holding. The old Sofia would’ve been in the thick of it, jostling for the perfect angle. The new Sofia stays on the balcony, content to watch the mosaic of their shadows on the cobblestones below.
Lina leans against me, her clay-dusted fingers leaving prints on my sleeve. “¿Y?” So?
I sip the cortado. Perfect. Bitter. Sweet. Like this city, like this life I’m building—not between departures and arrivals, but in the quiet calculus of choosing, again and again, to be here.
Polilla tugs at my hair. “¿Entonces esto es quedarse?” So this is staying?
Lina answers by pressing her forehead to mine, her breath warm with espresso and morning. “Esto es pertenecer,” she corrects. This is belonging.
And I’m finally learning: roots aren’t chains—they’re the latticework that lets you climb higher, knowing there’s something solid to return to when the wind gets rough.
—Sofia