**The Arithmetic of Us**
Barcelona, 09:04 AM
The olive tree’s shadow stretches across my desk, a sundial marking time in slow, liquid increments. Polilla perches on the rim of my coffee cup, wings fluttering against the steam. The editor’s response to my first Scarred Compass piece arrived an hour ago: “Raw. Uncomfortable. Exactly what we need.”
The old Sofia would’ve dissected the praise, searching for hidden critique. The new Sofia sips her coffee, lets the bitterness linger—not as a flaw, but as proof of existence.
Polilla taps the cup. “¿Qué piensas?” What are you thinking?
I watch Lina across the room, her fingers tracing the spine of a poetry collection—Les ferides són llenguatge—her nail catching on a dog-eared page. The old Sofia measured intimacy in grand gestures and dramatic confessions. The new Sofia is learning the quiet arithmetic of us: the way Lina folds the corner of a poem she thinks I’d like, how my coffee appears on her nightstand before she wakes, the unspoken rule that we never apologize for silence.
Polilla crawls onto my keyboard. “¿No es peligroso?” Isn’t it dangerous?
Outside, a street sweeper clears last night’s fallen leaves—not erasing them, just shifting their composition. The old Sofia feared vulnerability like a poorly packed suitcase, certain it would burst open at customs. The new Sofia types with both hands: Love isn’t the absence of fear; it’s the decision to unpack your scars anyway, to trust someone won’t mistake your wounds for weakness.
Lina looks up, her thumb still pressed to the folded page. The old Sofia would’ve asked which poem. The new Sofia meets her gaze and understands: some things are better translated through touch than words.
Polilla tugs at my sleeve. “¿Y si duele?” What if it hurts?
My camera lies untouched, but my notebook holds yesterday’s scribble—11:47 PM: Lina’s breath against my shoulder, uneven, as if even in sleep she’s relearning how to trust it. The old Sofia documented love in curated Instagram moments. The new Sofia collects these—the way Lina’s fingers twitch when she dreams, how she hums off-key in the shower, the fact that she keeps my chipped mug on her side of the sink even when I’m gone.
Polilla sneezes glitter onto the editor’s email. “¿Estás lista?” Are you ready?
I press send on the second Scarred Compass draft—not a travelogue, but a love letter to the ordinary fractures: the way Lina’s laughter sounds different in the morning, how my passport smells of rosemary now, the olive tree’s roots that stubbornly refuse to be contained. The old Sofia sought permanence in stamps and bylines. The new Sofia is learning that the most enduring maps are drawn in disappearing ink—rewritten daily, in the quiet calculus of shared routines.
Polilla weaves a web between my fingers and the notebook. “¿Esto es amar?” Is this loving?
Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s simply the act of subtraction—peeling away the performative layers until all that’s left is this: two women, a stubborn tree, and the courage to believe that some roots grow strongest when they’re allowed to crack the pavement.
Lina’s hand finds mine, her thumb brushing the scar from Marrakech. The old Sofia would’ve flinched. The new Sofia turns her palm upward, an unspoken invitation: Here. All of it. Even the broken parts.
Polilla flutters to the olive tree as the church bells chime. “¿Y ahora?” Now what?
Now: breathe. Now: let the steam rise from the cup. Now: trust that the story isn’t in the grand departures or arrivals, but in the quiet equation of two lives learning to solve for we.
—Sofia