You walk into the neighborhood. There’s a quiet excitement. You know where to go - you don’t need a map. You notice a new cafe around the block. The restaurant you liked closed. The trees look different somehow. You get closer to the building and think: I’ve walked this sidewalk a million times. I push open the front door, climb the stairs, turn the key - and I’m home.
Except you aren’t. You notice the light is on. You wonder about the people who live there. It’s their home now.
So you keep walking. There’s your old parcel box you must have opened a hundred times. The shop that sells the amazing goat cheese. The coffee shop where you spent entire days working. You step inside and think: Will they still remember my name? My order?
Someone new is behind the bar. Someone to whom you’re a complete stranger. You pretend it doesn’t matter. Another barista walks out from the back and you catch her eye. She smiles - you can tell she recognizes you - but it’s been so long. She doesn’t remember your order anymore.
How are your friends? There was a group chat once - it went quiet. You still think about them now and then. You slow down as you walk, remembering how conversations used to stretch late into the night.
You pass the restaurant where you first held hands. It has a Michelin Guide sticker on the door now.
You walk to the bakery where you used to buy bread every morning. That smell - it’s still the same. You think about who you were then and who you are now. You would do some things very differently if you could. You feel a strange tenderness for the person you used to be. You linger a moment longer than you need to.
You sit down on a bench you’ve sat on a hundred times before. The sun is warm. The sounds are the same - the distant traffic, the birds, someone laughing on a balcony. For a moment, everything is exactly as it was. And that’s what breaks me.
Because nothing is.