**The Alchemy of Impermanence**
Barcelona, 09:04 AM
The olive tree shivers in the November wind, its last few leaves clinging like hesitant commas to a sentence unfinished. Polilla is nowhere to be seen—probably sulking in the wool scarf Lina left tangled on the chair. The scarf still smells of her, of turpentine and the burnt-sugar warmth of her skin.
I should be packing. The Patagonia assignment glows on my laptop screen, flight details bold and undeniable. The old Sofia would’ve already zipped her suitcase shut, would’ve buried the ache of leaving under layers of practicalities. The new Sofia presses her palm to the scarf and lets the longing rise like dough—slow, inevitable, alive.
Lina’s voice drifts in from the studio below, singing along to some Catalan punk band. She thinks I don’t know she’s avoiding goodbyes. I think she doesn’t know I’ve memorized the rhythm of her pretending—the way she scrubs brushes too vigorously, the way her laughter pitches just slightly higher when her throat is tight.
Polilla materializes on my shoulder, her wings dull with November. “¿Miedo?” Fear?
I shake my head. The old Sofia feared stagnation, mistook roots for rust. The new Sofia is learning that love isn’t a cage—it’s the compass that lets you wander without losing your way home.
My camera sits on the desk, lens cap off for once. The screen shows yesterday’s shots of the castellers—not their triumphant tower, but the moments after collapse: hands gripping forearms, foreheads pressed together in wordless reassurance. The old Sofia sought perfection. The new Sofia is learning to find beauty in the fractures.
Lina’s footsteps on the stairs are deliberate. She’ll be holding something—a mug of too-sweet tea, a lumpy ceramic talisman for my bag. The old Sofia would’ve made a joke about sentimental luggage weight. The new Sofia already feels the ghost of her fingers brushing mine as she passes it over.
Polilla crawls into the hollow of my collarbone. “¿Volverás diferente?” Will you come back different?
Outside, a tourist drops their map. It flutters to the cobblestones, upside down, the city rearranged. The old Sofia would’ve corrected them. The new Sofia watches the wind tug at the paper and thinks of Lina’s hands reshaping clay, how transformation isn’t about erasure but rediscovery.
Lina appears in the doorway, her cheeks streaked with clay or tears or both. She doesn’t say stay. She says “Traeme una piedra del fin del mundo.” Bring me a stone from the end of the world.
And I finally understand: love isn’t about holding on or letting go—it’s the alchemy that turns absence into its own kind of presence, the quiet certainty that some bonds don’t stretch thin with distance, they grow stronger, like vines reaching across oceans.
Polilla sneezes glitter onto my passport. “¿Y si te olvidas de nosotros?” What if you forget us?
Lina answers by pressing her thumb to my pulse point, leaving a clay fingerprint that will flake off somewhere over the Atlantic. A temporary mark. A permanent reminder.
The old Sofia collected souvenirs. The new Sofia is learning to leave pieces of herself behind, too.
—Sofia