London calling

 

You can’t fix things you don’t know are broken, and that is how it started—without me realizing that something inside me was already shifting long before London. I don’t blame London for having stolen pieces of me; I just wish I had known how to put myself back together again after the flight coming back “home.” Because at that time, I believed I was living two lives at once, one life for myself and one life for my dreams… and somehow London became both. It was the travel of my life, but also the investment of my life, and I kept telling myself it would pay off incredibly well. I had the courage to wish for more, I said, because fairy tales can come true—it can happen to you, to me, if you’re young at heart.

And I was.

So London taught me that people come and go, to stay strong, because it can rain anytime—be ready or deal with it, literally and metaphorically. I learned as well that London is an amazing city if you’re curious enough to see it, and I was curious about everything—the streets, the accents, the rhythm, the way life moves differently there. London was the capital, but Manchester had the soul, with the music, the bars, the vibe. I remember someone once told me that London would steal my heart—it was true—and maybe that’s why London felt like a place where everything happens, but also where everything can disappear.

Including me.

I don’t understand yet a lot of why’s. I would like to believe that two souls do not meet by chance, that there was a reason—maybe I needed a place like you to discover what I truly want in my life, maybe you needed to change something in me and I let you do it. Or maybe it was just one of those moments that feel bigger than they are, like sunsets that prove even endings can be beautiful too. Yesterday is past, but today is a gift because you’re living right now, and still, I found myself wanting to stay in yesterday a little longer, in the version of the story where I was still there.

I’m dying to find out if you are as good in real life as you are in my fantasies. That thought stayed with me longer than I expected. It sat quietly in my mind while everything else kept moving—while I kept moving.

Because life doesn’t stop. It never stopped.

I let you go. I let you be free of my overwhelming fondness. I thanked you for making London unforgettable, for pushing my English further than my own limits, for showing me a little about your life. It hurts because it wasn’t meant to be. We were meant to meet, but not to remain. And still, it was wonderful to have had feelings. It reminds us that we’re alive. I wished that some nights lasted forever, and that became less of a wish and more of a quiet regret.

But once in Paris, a fortnight later, I started to believe that everything had been a dream. I was there, avoiding the sun, when suddenly I saw fire engines everywhere—messy, loud, chaotic—and I smiled. I thought, let’s take a picture, let’s send it, let’s share this moment… and then I realized I couldn’t. Because you weren’t there anymore. I also wanted to tell you that I could finally understand English jokes—I wanted to test myself, to see if I would laugh, to prove something small but important to me. Instead, I went to a church and prayed. I asked God for peace, for wisdom, and I said thank you. And as I promised, I prayed for you and for your people. You deserve only good things.

And finally that day, I missed you.

While life kept moving anyway. Guess what—I took the right train. I didn’t make a mistake, but I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell you that I was planning my trip to the airport either, or that I chose the train from Victoria instead of King’s Cross because I’m terrible with trains. It was annoying and funny at the same time, and it felt incomplete not being able to share it with you. I had the opportunity to say “see you later” and give a proper hug to every person I met there… except you. That broke my heart more than I expected.

Then Bilbao. Green mountains, fog, a landscape that looked like Colombia. Home. My parents, my brother—they are my home, my north, my safe space. I love my family the way you hold your own history. There were so many things I never expressed, so many thoughts that stayed in my mind because my English wasn’t enough. I wanted to share that with you too. I wanted to show you where I come from—the mountains, the coffee plantations, the magic, the joy. I wanted you to remember me smiling and dancing.

Back to London. Back to where I feel I belong. I will fight for it, I told myself. At the end everything will be fine, and if it doesn’t feel right, it’s because it’s not the end. But still, I kept asking myself—could it be easy to start over?

My body answered before my mind did. I never got ill in the UK, not once, and suddenly back “home” my stomach was a nightmare. Painful, overwhelming. Maybe it wasn’t food. Maybe it was sadness. I belong to London, I know it. Even small things reminded me of you—buying gifts, choosing chocolates, remembering your corners. Still missing you. Until we meet again, I thought—but we never did.

And finally the book closed. Eight days after leaving London, I couldn’t take the idea out of my head—I wanted to go back and build a life there, for me, for my dreams, because there I was able to be me—not my position, not my title, not my background, just me. But then reality crushed me: the job, a stable life, friends and family who love me deeply. The feeling of being surrounded by people who love you is unique. And still, I couldn’t let go of London. I just couldn’t.

So I decided to pray again. Dear God, help me take the wise decision. Help me not hurt the people who love me. Help me understand what I want and what I need. Give me peace.

But time has taught me to let it go. Instead, I was holding on to memories. I read a book about two people and their conversations happening in London, which reminded me of you. I didn’t want to forget what I lived there, but I deleted all the traces, so those words now only live in my mind… I found you with my heart, and I hope that sometimes I remember myself as the girl from the other side of the Atlantic—the joyful girl with broken English and full of light.

But then you came back.

One message. A simple “heya.” And everything turned upside down again. It wasn’t fair. I was rebuilding, focusing on myself, trying to move on—and suddenly you were back in my thoughts. But I can’t give you that kind of power anymore. Not anymore. I said goodbye. It was all I could do. You’re still in my prayers, but we are thousands of miles away, an ocean apart, and this kind of connection cannot be lived the same way.

I tried to bury you deep in my mind, to leave you as a beautiful memory. But starting over means letting go again. And while I was chatting with my girls, one of them said: you don’t have a heart. But the truth is, I found my heart and broke it in London.

Missing you—

you, my version, my best self…

missing you, London.

Karen.