It's almost been a month here and I've been building a new routine that feels like my very own. I've been referring to this apartment as my "home" and sometimes I forget to tell people that I'm only here for the summer...
And I discovered a new cafe that felt like the moment you realize a first date is no longer awkward, and you want to stay a bit longer. And I sat in it for hours, watching people and writing in my notebook and creating and scribbling like I used to do.
And I can't seem to pass by any sort of book stand without picking one up. They stare at me like orphaned puppies just waiting for a new home. And I don't know where my e-reader is because these days I want real books that once sat in someone else's lap or hid underneath lost pillow cases.
And it finally rained, so I picked up and went to the Met for the first time and browsed the Schiaparelli and Prada exhibit and bought pretty postcards and thought about the type of woman I want to become. But I couldn't stay for too long, because I don't like the feeling of being lost, especially indoors.
And on the weekend I had my first (of too many) sake bombs and I sat on rooftop patios with tiny lights sprinkled in the trees and I danced on darkened dance floors like that eighteen-year-old girl who just moved away from home with girls who I feel like I've known forever. And I ate can't-fit-in-your-mouth hamburgers on patio furniture that looked like something my grandmother would own in the seventies. And someone brought up me leaving and it was probably me, because I'm too practical to indulge sometimes.
And I finally called my grandmother because I promised I would and she told me she misses me and to watch out for the "bad people" and then asked me if I met anyone but then not to meet anyone here, because she doesn't want me to stay. I told her that I haven't been gone that long, and she said it just feels like it.
And I understand.