Vanessa
"All packed," I say to Melissa—my best and only lifelong friend—as I zip up the last suitcase. A small backpack, a priceless keepsake from my grandmother that I inherited after her passing, rests beside the luggage.
"You sure about this?" Melissa asks, her eyes carrying that familiar sadness.
She's always been my rock—through every crisis, every wild idea. Like a less-evil twin, just as crazy, and someone I love deeply. Honestly, she's the only person I wish I didn't have to leave behind. But when my grandmother died, back when I was thirteen, everything changed. My world collapsed, and life turned into a slow-burning hell.
"You know I have to do this. My uncle's deadline to 'make a decision' ends this Friday. And there's no way I'm agreeing to an arranged marriage. You know the kind of power he holds. They all do. Running away is my only option."
"I know, love. I just wish I could go with you."
"You have a beautiful family, a perfect man I adore too, and he doesn't deserve to be left behind."
"Yeah, yeah, you're right. But I swear, I'll visit you as soon as I save up and it's safe."
"Stick to the plan. You know nothing. I lied and vanished. You have to look devastated."
"Don't worry—I will be. Who else can handle me like you do? Not even Nick survives me 24/7."
"Mel, haha, I love you, but you're starting to sound obsessed. Are you sure you're not my secret fiancée?"
"Idiot, come here—I'll kill you," she laughs, hurling a pillow at me and landing a perfect hit.
We laugh, but the air is thick with goodbye—bittersweet and heavy. Time speeds up, words stumble. Melissa helps me carry the bags to the door, never letting go of my hand.
"Promise me you'll take care of yourself," she whispers, voice trembling.
"I promise," I reply, knowing full well that no promise can hold back the fear or the dizzying unknown.
We hug so tightly it almost anchors me, but resolve wins. I step out of the apartment, heart clenched, mind blank. The taxi waits below. I turn one last time—she's still standing in the doorway, wiping tears with her sleeve.
As I arrive at the airport, memories and doubts parade through my mind. Every red light feels like a sign to turn back. I take a deep breath and clutch my grandmother's backpack, her warmth still lingering in its fabric—as if she's walking beside me into the unknown.
Inside, the airport buzzes with voices, announcements, and hurried footsteps. I feel invisible. And for a moment, that invisibility feels like freedom.
Walking toward the boarding gate, loneliness mixes with the thrill of starting over. Between flight announcements and the echo of strangers' steps, I let myself be swept along, wondering if I'll ever call another place home. I find my gate, sit on one of those cold metal chairs, hugging my knees, replaying Melissa's tearful goodbye and the weight of everything I'm leaving behind.
When boarding is finally announced, the vertigo hits hard. I step onto the plane, heart racing, stealing one last glance through the window—as if somewhere out there, I might still catch a glimpse of my old life.
The flight is a blur of scattered thoughts and silent promises. Despite the fear, I'm determined to find something beyond this feeling of rootlessness.
Upon landing, everything feels foreign—new lights, unfamiliar accents, the hum of a language that doesn't yet belong to me. I follow the signs toward the exit, dragging my suitcase and my uncertainties. Among the crowd of strangers, I feel something shift. Maybe this is where it all begins.
"Hello, Melbourne. Let's see what you've got for me."
Yes, I talk to myself. Get used to it.
I chose Australia for many reasons. The distance from Colombia was the biggest one. But Melbourne—its culture, its art, its vastness and warmth—felt like the perfect contrast I needed. As a photographer and artist, the possibilities here are endless. First stop: Hosier Lane, a graffiti-filled alley perfect for bold, bohemian shots. I even found a room just five minutes away, in the home of a woman who lives alone. We've chatted a bit, and she seems kind. Hopefully, she's not secretly a lunatic.
Arriving at the new apartment is a mix of relief and strangeness. Olivia, the woman who greets me, has kind eyes and a soft laugh with a British accent that feels oddly out of place in this Australian corner. She helps me settle in, shows me the tiny balcony overflowing with plants, and the miniature kitchen where the scent of toast seems to linger forever. We don't talk much, but her silence is comforting—like space to breathe and observe this new universe from the window.
That first night, the city pulses behind the glass. I can't sleep—jet lag and anxiety keep me restless. So I head out, wandering through empty streets, listening to my footsteps echo on the damp asphalt. That's when I see it: a massive mural in blue and orange, calling me to explore. I grab my camera, and for a moment, the lens becomes my refuge.
The next few days are a slow dance with Melbourne's rhythms. I learn the sounds of the city, the cadence of its language, the routine of the tram. I get lost on purpose, letting chance guide me through alleys of street art, tiny cafés, and bookstores where I hide from sudden drizzle. Olivia shares tips and stories, and with each one, the city paints itself in new shades. Thanks to her and her love for the arts, I've got an interview soon—to photograph events for a new music group. Things are starting to feel... possible.
Sometimes fear sneaks back in, dressed as nostalgia. But I fight it off with bites of Australian reality: a flat white, a postcard from Federation Square, a smile from a stranger. It's in that dance between memory and promise that I begin to belong—even if just for fleeting moments.
I walk around with my camera slung over my neck, chasing new angles, capturing graffiti that seems to breathe. In one of those quiet moments, I spot a group of people on the beach.
They look like friends, but if you saw them separately, you'd swear they'd never speak to each other. There's a dark-skinned girl with long braids and summer clothes, chatting nonstop while sitting on the lap of a ridiculously handsome blond guy—surfer vibes, muscles, tan skin, angelic face. Next to them, two guys sit on the sand. One is short, pale, covered in tattoos, and looks like he's plotting something sinister while watching the couple kiss. The other is the human version of a golden retriever—gentle eyes, reading a book like the world doesn't bother him. And then there's the last one.
Tall. Gorgeous. His face is calm in silence, dangerous in mystery. His smile feels like a warning before a fire—sweet and deadly. I notice more about him because his piercing blue-gray eyes have caught me staring like a total stalker. And now he's walking toward me.
Without thinking, I snap a photo of the group. Now they're all looking at me. Why did I take the picture? Where did that sudden boldness come from? No idea. But it vanishes instantly. I run—like a coward—with my camera and one shoe missing. Cinderella style.
Because if there's one thing Mel and I don't share, it's coordination. She's a sports goddess. I'm the goddess of the ground—I hit it more often than I'd like. I hear a voice behind me, a guy yelling that I lost my shoe. I keep running, refusing to acknowledge how insane this is. I look like a lunatic.
When I finally catch my breath and stop feeling like I'm being chased, I take off the remaining shoe and wander barefoot through the city. I cross plazas where street music blends with languages I still don't understand. I feel tiny and enormous at once—a single particle in this electrifying mosaic.
Back at Olivia's, my mind is a storm of thoughts. Everything feels gray and surreal, like fate just winked at me.