The sunlight in Lisbon didn’t behave the way it did in Seattle. Back home, light was something tentative and apologetic, diffusing through layers of perpetual cloud cover like a secret told in whispers. It slid down glass office towers in pale, uncertain streaks and pooled in puddles at street corners, never quite convinced it belonged there.
But in Lisbon, the sun arrived with unapologetic confidence, flinging itself across the Praça do Comércio with proprietary ease, turning the yellow facades into warm squares of gold, glinting off café glasses and the broad, patient Tagus River beyond. I sat at a small iron table in the corner of the plaza, my chair tilted at just the right angle to see both the water and the steady flow of tourists and locals moving through the space like a choreographed dance they’d all learned without realizing it. The stem of my wine glass was cool against my fingertips, condensation sliding lazily down the bowl.
Vinho Verde—crisp, faintly effervescent, tasting like the possibility of starting over without anyone watching. My phone vibrated against the metal table, skittering an inch across the surface with a sharp buzz that cut through the ambient noise of conversation and distant music. I glanced down, expecting something mundane—an email from my new team about tomorrow’s sprint planning meeting, a promotional text from a service I’d forgotten to unsubscribe from, maybe a timezone-confused message from an acquaintance who still hadn’t internalized that I was six thousand miles and six hours away from my old life.
Instead, I saw a name I hadn’t expected to see for at least another month: Amber. For a moment, I simply stared at it. My thumb hovered over the answer button while my body responded ahead of my conscious mind—chest tightening, that hollow drop in my stomach, the subtle bracing I’d trained myself to do whenever my family called.
Dysfunction leaves a muscle memory more reliable than any calendar reminder. I answered anyway. Old habits run deep.
The sound that erupted into my ear wasn’t crying. Crying would have been softer, more human, recognizable as distress seeking comfort. This was something else entirely—a high-pitched, jagged shrieking that felt like someone dragging metal across the inside of my skull.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
