April 23, 2025
By: Liana Torres

They say change is good. But they never tell you how much it hurts when it isn’t your choice.

A month ago, I packed up everything I owned—two suitcases, one box of books, and a dog-eared journal—and got on a one-way flight to a place that doesn’t feel like mine. It was supposed to be a “fresh start,” but it feels more like punishment. Not jail. Just… exile.

Back home, things weren’t perfect, but they made sense. I knew the streets by the cracks in the pavement. I had my spots: a greasy spoon diner with the best pancakes, a bridge where I used to sit and scream into the wind with my best friend after bad days, the bar where the jukebox always somehow played our song.

And the people—God, the people. They weren’t just friends. They were the kind of people who knew my middle name, the way I take my coffee, the look I get when I’m trying not to cry.

But when it all went sideways—when I made the kind of mistake that snowballs into a full-blown avalanche—some of them just… looked away. Not with anger. With silence. Which somehow hurt more.

I get why I had to go. I don’t blame them. I just wish someone had said, “We’ll miss you,” or “Don’t go too far.” But no one did. And now I sit in this city that smells like someone else’s memories and try to convince myself I’ll grow into it.

But tonight, like most nights, I just miss home. The version of it I lost. The one I still dream about.

Maybe exile is too dramatic a word. Or maybe it’s the only one that fits.