walked here with oriol.
afternoon sun too bright to ignore.
the sign said bonjour like it meant something,
but i was already thinking about leaving.
met with malica this week—
potential postdoc supervisor at beniba.
submitted the queen’s predoc application too.
if it all goes through, this might be my last summer here.
the city looked soft in the light—
like it didn’t know i was saying goodbye.
drift doesn’t ask for arrival.
just movement.
just the soft ache of being somewhere you already know how to leave.
it started slowly, like most good things.
paul and i drifted through vieux-montréal, not in a hurry, not quite anchored.
work came in waves—open tabs, notes half written, a reply sent too late but still meaningful.
the afternoon stretched without agenda.
there’s a softness in being accompanied without being watched.
the streets felt unfamiliar in a familiar way.
like they’d been repainted since last week but forgot to dry.
a man singing to himself passed us near saint-paul.
no one looked twice.
by the time we reached frontenac, the air had changed.
just enough rain to make you notice.
just enough light to feel like something was ending.
we said goodbye without ceremony.
no need for it.
i kept walking east, alone.
the drizzle softened the sounds of the city.
my breath felt louder than usual.
there’s something about walking in the rain that makes your thoughts feel more like weather than noise.
the lights on sherbrooke flickered early.
someone had chalked a heart onto the sidewalk that was already dissolving.
i didn’t take a photo.
it didn’t need to last.
i just kept moving.
not away, not toward.
just through.
i haven’t been back to italian class.
not really a decision—more like a slow unthreading.
at first i missed one, then two.
a message half-drafted. a reminder snoozed.
now it’s just a tab i don’t open.
i think of them sometimes, conjugating without me.
the schwa still soft in my mouth.
still mine, even if unused.
there was no rupture. no reason.
just me, always a little too tired, a little too elsewhere.
it’s not shame. not quite guilt either.
just the shape of absence when you let it stay.
i’ve left so many places like this.
no goodbye, no explanation.
not because it didn’t matter, but because it did—and i couldn’t hold it all.
the leaving isn’t loud.
it’s slow. partial. unfinished.
like language.
like me.
the conference ended.
or maybe it didn’t.
people lingered like the performance was still going.
hallway laughter.
cups half-full.
a woman nodding too hard at nothing.
i had asked my question.
black faces in every slide,
but no data that spoke to us.
just placement.
just image.
the speaker deflected.
clean. soft.
the room let it happen.
i stepped outside.
cold air, wet pavement,
nothing sticking.
then he said it.
ben énervé, hein?
like anger was the problem.
like clarity was a disruption.
like i wasn’t still there.
i found him.
calm. exact.
you don’t get to narrate my presence.
he laughed.
i didn’t.
i walked home with the cold in my hands.
still here.
still mine.
walked here with oriol.
afternoon sun too bright to ignore.
the sign said bonjour like it meant something,
but i was already thinking about leaving.
