Vanessa
I wake up with wonder still clinging to my skin. The memory of last night drums against my temples—the faces of that group, the boy with the wildfire smile, my barefoot escape across Melbourne's damp asphalt. There's a sweet kind of vertigo in uncertainty, a promise that something unexpected is about to happen.
I get up before sunrise, when the city is still yawning and the trams begin gliding through the shadows like bell-ringing ghosts.
I make coffee in the tiny kitchen, the scent of toast blending with the green of the balcony plants. From there, I watch the city stretch and wake. Olivia reads the newspaper in silence, occasionally offering a smile or a comment about the weather or a quirky neighborhood anecdote.
"Looks like rain today," she says. "Take an umbrella. And keep your shoes close—Melbourne might ask for another one as toll."
Laughing, I head back to my room, open my laptop, and hit the call button—bracing for the scream I know is coming. And right on cue, my best friend, who hasn't heard from me in three days, explodes with curse words, threats, and hysterical laughter that makes me wonder if my silence actually drove her mad.
When she calms down, I catch her saying,
"Is this how you treat your other half? Your best friend? The sun of your life—as if I were just a piece of…"
Yep. Lost her again.
Truth is, I didn't call her on purpose. I wanted to start fresh, without anything pulling me back to my country, to the comfort of her couch, pretending nothing bad could happen to either of us. But my rational mind knew I couldn't go back. So I forced myself to stay silent for three days. A bit cruel, maybe. I could've at least told her I was safe. But I'm extreme—it's all or nothing. And maybe that's for the best.
"Okay, fine. I get it. You needed space—from everyone, apparently even me."
God, she's so dramatic. I adore her.
"You know I love you. And yes, I went a little overboard…"
"A little? Bad friend."
"Okay, okay. A lot. But not that much…"
"VANESSA!"
"Calm down. We stopped yelling, remember? Let me tell you what happened the other day. Maybe you'll forgive me."
"Spill."
She's so predictable. Loves a good story.
"Gossip queen."
"…"
"Haha, okay. So, the other day I went for a walk—still don't have a transit pass here—and ended up at a beach about fifteen minutes from Olivia's place."
"Thank God she wasn't a serial killer. I imagined a thousand horror stories while you ghosted me for THREE DAYS."
"Maybe I should call you later…"
"Don't you dare. Keep going."
"Well, I was taking photos and stumbled upon this group of friends…"
I tell her everything—from the details to my mental breakdown, the photo I took, and my ridiculous escape.
Fifteen minutes later, she's still laughing. At least her bad mood evaporated.
"Okay, but the guy who chased you—the one with those intense eyes—I would've walked straight up to him. In a city this big, you might never see him again."
"Well, honestly, it wouldn't be the worst thing if I never saw him again. After the embarrassment, and the fact he probably thinks I'm insane, I'd rather not."
"Girl, I say this with love: you are insane."
"…Thanks. I know. But seriously, I hope I never run into any of them again. I just want things to be normal from now on."
"You're asking too much. Danger and you were born together… Speaking of which—your uncle came by. I don't think he believed me, but he has no way of knowing where you are."
"At least not yet… Just keep lying. And if things get tense with the family, tell me. I'll find a way to bring you and Nicolás here immediately."
"I love you. Everything's going to be fine. Now I have to go—Nick has a meeting with a producer, and things are looking good. I'll tell you everything later."
"Alright. I love you. Bye."
I grab an umbrella, just like Olivia suggested, and the fresh air nearly blows my thoughts away. Today, I've decided to get lost again—but this time, not to escape, but to discover.
I hop on a tram—free in the central zone, a gift for wanderers without a plan—and sit by the window, watching the city move to its own rhythm: half-asleep students, rushed office workers, tourists with cameras around their necks, and street performers tuning guitars. There's an invisible choreography in the flow of people.
The tram's automated voice announces "Flinders Street Station." I look out the window: yellow architecture and clock spires like a postcard frozen in time—the exact spot where yesterday and today shake hands. I decide to get off, blending into the human current, and promise myself that something important in my life must happen here.
I walk through the station, feeling like I'm in an old movie, then cross into Federation Square, where modern buildings clash with history and art fills every corner.
I let the tram network carry me like a wave. I get off at a random stop, find a tiny café, and order a flat white to go. The barista smiles, recognizing my foreign accent, and shares a route of bookstores and indie galleries.
"Don't miss the one on Degraves Street—they've got a photography section that'll make you swoon. And if you're into jazz, there's a hidden bar behind a flower shop with a show on Friday."
I thank her and head out with my coffee, ready to uncover every little detail of this city.
Hours dissolve into the scent of coffee and the worn covers of books. When the rain catches me off guard, I take shelter in a bookstore, surrounded by shelves that smell like old paper and adventure. I sit and read, my camera resting on my lap, letting strangers' words blend with my own story.
Outside, the drizzle turns the pavement into a mirror. Trams continue their parade, and I silently thank Olivia for her advice. I decide to head home before dark, but fate has other plans.
Turning a corner, I hear a familiar laugh—that contagious sound that could only belong to someone from the group I photographed. I hesitate, but curiosity wins. I walk toward the sound.
There they are, gathered under the awning of a bakery. The blond surfer guy and the girl with the long braids spot me instantly—and to my surprise, they smile.
"Hey, mystery photographer!" shouts Shane, the surfer, waving with disarming energy. Wenn, the girl with the braids, laughs and beckons me over.
They introduce me to the rest: Connor, the tattooed guy; Zach, the distracted reader; and finally, Mason—the one with the wildfire smile—whose eyes scan me again like they're trying to decode secrets I don't even know I have. He doesn't say much. But when he looked at me, it was like the city noise faded. Like he knew I was running too.
They joke about my soap-opera-worthy escape and promise to return my shoe, which Mason apparently has in his care. The scene is so absurd I forget to feel awkward. For a moment, I debate whether to run again or be a normal person for three seconds and enjoy the nostalgia melting into laughter and the steam of fresh bread. I wanted to run, like always. But something in their laughter made me stay. Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like an intruder.
Afternoon turns to night as we talk about music, art, and the places I shouldn't miss in Melbourne. They invite me to join them the next day for a street art tour and promise to share the stories behind the city's most enigmatic murals—followed by a party at a trendy club.
Olivia was right: sometimes, the universal language is friendship born from chance.
When I finally return home, the city's sounds feel less foreign. I fall asleep with the promise of a new day, where every corner, every face, every tram ride might be the beginning of a different story. Here, in this mosaic of languages, colors, and dreams, I begin to believe Melbourne has far more to offer me than I ever imagined.