At The Edge of Elsewhere
I had packed my life into a single suitcase—shoes pressed against books, and heartbreak wedged between folded sweaters.
It was my last evening in Pakistan.
The sun was bleeding out across the sky in that overdramatic way it only did in July—gold, orange, then that bruised violet, as if even the heavens couldn’t believe I was leaving. Mama was still hovering around the edges of my room, pretending to fold the same dupatta for the third time, as if pretending everything was normal would delay the inevitable.
I sat on the edge of my bed, twisting a bracelet around my wrist. The one Uroosh had made for me with tiny blue beads and a crooked silver "A" charm. My little sister never said things directly—she didn’t tell me not to go, didn’t cry when I got the acceptance email from the university in Florence. But she did make that bracelet. And left it on my pillow the night before.
Typical.
My phone buzzed, and I didn’t want to look—but I did. Group chat. My old school friends were sending bittersweet jokes about sending me tandoori pasta recipes, as if that’d keep me grounded in who I was. I laughed. Then I teared up. Then I turned the phone face down.
I wasn’t leaving because I hated home. I was leaving because it was time. Because sometimes, love isn’t about staying—it’s about seeing if you can come back stronger. Whole.
Papa knocked on the door, quietly, like he didn’t want to be a father for a second—just a man about to watch his daughter fly halfway across the world.
“You ready?” he asked.
No.
“Yes,” I said.
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The airport was cold in that way airports are always cold, no matter what city you're in—like departure and distance needed their own kind of climate. Everyone was pretending to act casual, but Mama kept adjusting my scarf like she always did when she was emotional, and Papa kept checking the passport like it was going to dissolve any second.
Uroosh had shoved a chocolate bar into my backpack earlier and hissed “Don’t eat Italian chocolate. This is better.”
She didn’t look me in the eye when I hugged her.
The final call echoed through the terminal like a thunderclap.
And just like that, I was walking away. One foot after another, like the ground would catch me before I regretted it.
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When the plane lifted off, I closed my eyes and let the motion lull me. I didn’t cry. I didn’t look back. I let the city disappear beneath the clouds and thought, Okay. Okay. This is it.
Somewhere below was the only world I’d ever known.
And ahead, somewhere wrapped in foreign air and unfamiliar sounds, was a version of me I hadn’t met yet.
I didn’t know that Florence would be lonely. That I'd get lost at least six times in the first week.
I didn’t know about the dog. About Ethan. About Ghost.
All I knew was that I was finally leaving.
And sometimes, leaving is the bravest thing a girl can do.
