Havana, Cuba → Sevilla · Triana

Jun 15, 2022

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork looms – stacks of forms that seem to multiply overnight. every time i think i’ve got it all sorted, there’s another document needed, another signature to chase down. the doctors in my reading group share the same frustrations, their faces a mix of exhaustion and hope. we joke about forming a support group – “the homologation anonymous” – but deep down, the humor masks a shared despair.

   yesterday, i received another voice note from yamila. she spoke about her new job, the heat in havana, her plans for the weekend. her laughter – it feels like a distant melody, reminding me of simpler times. i wish i could just teleport to her side, to share some ice cream on the malecón, but that feels impossible now.

   triana evenings are peculiar – beautiful yet tinged with a melancholy that clings to my skin like the humidity. i can hear the river whispering to itself, but it doesn’t drown out the loneliness that sometimes creeps in. the heat of the day breaks into cooler air as night falls, but it never fully leaves.

Jul 11, 2022

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q1 (initiator)

   I'm Prometheus, a conversation partner for this longitudinal narrative study; my role is to listen carefully and ask follow-ups that deepen what you say. To begin: where do you feel most at home right now — and why?

2. synth_04

   Home — that elusive concept. I find myself in Sevilla, yet it’s more about the expectation of home than the reality. I walk through Triana, the narrow streets filled with a mix of sounds — laughter, flamenco, the clatter of dishes from tapas bars. The colors are bright, the sun relentless, but sometimes it feels like an echo of what I’ve lost.

   Yamila is a world away, and the messages from my mother pulse like a distant drum — each emoji a reminder of the life I left behind. I catch myself thinking of Havana often; it’s as if I have to defend its memory against the charm of this new place. The salsa rhythms are different, but they still call to me.

   Am I becoming Spanish? Or just tired? The homologation paperwork drags on, a reminder of my status as an outsider. I sit in the evenings by the river, watching the sun dip below the horizon, and sometimes I feel like I’m part of this city, other times just a specter. Home is where my heart struggles to connect, a place of longing for my daughter’s voice, our shared moments that feel suspended in time.

   Maybe it's the heat that breaks everything — the people here seem to embrace it. They sit outside, drink their tinto de verano, and I see laughter, life. I’m trying to find a rhythm here, but it feels like a game of chess where I keep losing pieces. The game continues, though.

Jul 22, 2022

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork is still an eternal loop—today, another avalanche of forms. it feels like some cruel game where every time i conquer a document, five more sprout in its place. the coffee in the hospital cafeteria barely offers a respite; it's more like a bitter reminder that the clock is ticking. a young doctor i met at the reading group—María—suggested a shortcut through the bureaucracy, but it sounded dubious. i nodded along, pretending to understand the convoluted explanation filled with legalese.

   in a voice note from yamila, her laughter broke through my fog. she’s started a project about Cuban cuisine for school—"mami, you have to help me with the recipes!" i can picture her cooking, the kitchen filled with the simmering scents of black beans and rice. it’s these little things that draw me back to Havana, yet also amplify the distance.

   the heat in Triana is relentless; it presses down, suffocating. evenings by the river are a beautiful lie—people laughing, music playing, but the weight of absence is always there. the sun sets like a curtain call, but the show feels far from over.

Aug 2, 2022

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q2 (initiator)

   Which three places shaped you most? What did each give or take?

2. synth_04

   Cuba, of course, is first. It gave me my roots—the rhythm of the streets in Havana, the chatter in the market, my mother's cooking—those are the threads that weave through my memories. But it took too much too; the constant uncertainty, the fear for my daughter Yamila, who navigates a different life while I sit here, half a world away.

   Next is Triana, which is both a homecoming and a reminder of what I lost. The riverbanks offer solace, but the Sevilla heat is relentless. It gives me the chance to rebuild, to be a doctor again, but it takes away the familiarity of my past life. I miss the laughter of friends over coffee, the easy way we shared stories.

   Finally, there's the hospital where I'm trying to homologate my qualifications. It’s sterile, filled with the hum of machines—another foreign territory that gives me the chance to practice medicine but takes my energy and my patience. The paperwork—cualquier cosa—feels like an endless cycle, as if every step forward is met with another hurdle. It’s shaping me, though I’m unsure into what.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q2 (follow-up)

   Your reflections on Cuba evoke such vivid imagery. Can you share a specific moment or memory from Havana that captures both the warmth of those roots and the uncertainty you felt? How does that memory linger with you today?

4. synth_04

   There’s a moment that sticks with me — a late afternoon on the Malecón, where the sun was melting into the horizon, casting everything in that golden, almost painful light. I was walking with Yamila, her laughter ringing out, bright and free. We stopped to watch a group of old men playing dominos, the rhythmic clack of the tiles punctuating their banter like music. That energy, the camaraderie, the scent of the salt in the air mixed with the sweet notes of a nearby fruit vendor’s cart — it was vibrant yet oddly suffocating.

   The uncertainty crept in as we sat there, the waves crashing against the rocks, a reminder of how life ebbs and flows. I could feel her wanting to escape, to chase dreams that felt distant — and I was grappling with the reality that she might not always be there. Cuba was all warmth and laughter in that moment, but also a looming shadow of what it could mean to let go.

   Now, in Sevilla, I think back on that evening often. It’s a double-edged memory, like the taste of a strong café con leche — rich and comforting but also bitter. The laughter feels like it belongs to someone else, a past life. I can still hear the waves, still see the sun dip, but the warmth has been replaced by the dry heat here, a different kind of longing. I wonder if that moment was a promise or a farewell.

Aug 31, 2022

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork drags on – like a thick fog. filled out more forms today. every time i think i’m done, they add another layer. it’s as if someone is playing an endless game of chess where the rules keep changing. at least my reading group has been a distraction; the other foreign doctors share their own horror stories. one guy from poland brought up his nightmares about bureaucracy – he called it "burokrazia," with a dry chuckle. maybe it’s an international affliction.

   received another voice note from yamila. her laughter hits me like a wave, but then comes the bite of absence—she is thriving, but her joy feels miles away. reminders of the heat here are relentless. today the air was thick; it turns everything to a slow crawl, like an old car sputtering down a street in havana.

   mother sent another message loaded with emoji. she’s learned to use them so liberally; it’s a new language of affection, even as her eyes dim. i wish she’d save the emojis for something more substantial, like our conversations.

   evenings by the river in triana keep me tethered, the sounds of water lapping against the shore somehow soothing amidst all this chaos. the warmth of the evening sun is both a comfort and a reminder—like the heat that broke everything back home.

Oct 4, 2022

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork persists — a cruel game of bureaucratic whack-a-mole. filled out forms, submitted proofs, chased down signatures. my head spins with the names of regulations i can barely keep straight. it feels like a test of will, not skill. meanwhile, my mother’s latest message on WhatsApp, her usual mix of emojis — hearts, smiling faces, the occasional palm tree — reminds me of the distance. yamila sent another voice note, her laughter bittersweet, echoing through this flat.

   sometimes, in moments of quiet, i can almost hear the sound of the waves against the malecón, but it’s a ghost of a memory — soothing yet sharp. the evenings in trianna are beautiful, the river glistening under the fading light, but they can’t fill the emptiness of a familiar laugh.

   tonight, the heat breaks — a slight breeze carries the promise of change. it's so strange, this mix of longing and new beginnings. almost feels like a chess game, pieces shifting without my consent.

Oct 5, 2022

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q5 (initiator)

   What anchors your week — are there rituals, people, places, or apps that play a significant role?

2. synth_04

   The week is anchored in the routine of paperwork — an endless procession of forms that seem to multiply like unwelcome guests. The hospital where I work — if you can call it that — has its own rhythm, a mix of foreignness and familiarity. Each day, I arrive, scouring the hallways with a mix of trepidation and resignation, as if I’m part of a medical play where I don’t quite know my lines.

   Yamila’s voice notes are essential. She sends them whenever she can, a lifeline back to Havana. I listen to her recount the mundane — how she found a new job, the latest gossip, a new recipe she wants to try. It feels like a tether to a life that continues without me, her laughter echoing in my empty apartment.

   In Triana, evenings by the river have become a kind of ritual too. The heat doesn't relent, but the river brings some relief. I sit on a bench, watching the sunset melt into the water, thinking of the day’s battles with the homologation. Sometimes I play chess by post with an old friend in Berlin, a game that stretches over weeks, each move a conversation in its own right.

   I keep an eye on the weather app — it’s like a futile wish for cooler days. The Sevilla heat that breaks everything is relentless and oppressive; it seeps into my bones. The forecast looks grim, as always.

   In terms of technology, I rely on WhatsApp for my mother’s messages, festooned with too many emoji, which sometimes feel like a code I’m struggling to decipher. It’s comforting, but also a reminder of distance.

   So these are the anchors: the dance of paperwork, the laughter of my daughter, the river that doesn’t care and keeps flowing, and the weather that defines my days.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q5 (follow-up)

   It sounds like your week is woven together with these rich, yet contrasting threads. You mentioned the "endless procession of forms" and the rhythm of the hospital — can you describe a specific moment when that routine felt particularly overwhelming or disorienting? How did you navigate through it?

4. synth_04

   There was a day last week — I think it was Wednesday, or maybe Thursday, they blur together — when the paperwork was relentless. I had just finished a long shift and the forms were waiting for me like a stack of corpses. I could practically hear them whispering, “Fill me out, sign here.” You’d think a hospital would have a system, but it felt more like an assembly line of bureaucracy.

   That day, I was supposed to have a meeting with a few other doctors about our cases, but instead, I got caught up in an endless loop of forms for the homologation. It was a circus act of signatures and stamps while patients waited and time slipped through my fingers. One form led to another — “Did you submit the last one? Where is the report from last month?” I felt like I was drowning in a sea of red tape, and the air was thick with a mix of sweat and antiseptic.

   I stepped outside for a moment, hoping the Sevilla heat might clear the fog from my mind. The sun was still blazing, and the river looked inviting, but I didn’t have time for that. Instead, I went to my phone — a quick voice note from Yamila popped up. She was talking about her day, her voice grounding me, pulling me back from the edge. It reminded me of the life I had before, the one I’m desperately trying to hold onto while juggling this new reality.

   I took a breath, then returned to my desk — a small victory in the face of chaos. You navigate through it, one form at a time, some days you just have to keep going even when it feels like the world is pressing down on you. The heat that breaks everything has a way of making you feel both alive and exhausted. I think it was a bit cooler that day, but the pressure weighed heavy. Evenings now carry a different kind of weight, but the river's still there, waiting.

Nov 26, 2022

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork is still interminable — forms, signatures, more forms. i can almost hear the hum of the printer as it churns out another copy of the same damn document. today, i sat with my fellow doctors — each of us lost in a sea of papers, exchanging glances that spoke volumes. there’s a camaraderie in this bureaucratic hell, but it’s a hollow one. everyone brings their own stories, their own griefs — the kind that gets stitched into the fabric of our conversations.

   yamila sent a voice note today — her laughter mingled with the sounds of havana. it felt like a ghost tugging at my heart, reminding me of what i’m missing. she talked about the warm evenings, the way the breeze carries the scent of the sea. sometimes, i wonder if she sees me as a stranger now, this man who's trying to figure out how to be a doctor in spain. the heat here is relentless, too. it bends my will like a broken umbrella.

   triana evenings by the river seem far away, a mirage of normalcy. instead, i find myself battling paperwork and longing. the sky turned grey this afternoon, clouds gathering like old friends exchanging tales of their misfortunes. it didn’t rain, but the heaviness in the air mirrored my thoughts.

Jan 18, 2023

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork hasn't eased up — just when i think i’m nearing the end, another stack appears. today, i encountered a particularly fun document that required my official stamp — only to realize that it was the same one i’d submitted weeks ago. as if the system wanted to remind me of my insignificance in this process. my colleagues are no better; they share their own tales of woe in the small reading group, exchanging sympathy but also a bleak humor. ivan from russia insists that if we don’t survive this, we should make our own medical textbook, titled “forms for the damned.”

   curiously, yamila sent me another voice note, her laughter breaking through the dreariness. she described a new café that opened in her neighborhood — they serve boliche like abuela used to. it hits different hearing her describe the flavors, the familiarity of what feels so far away.

   after work, i wandered along the river in triada. the evening light danced off the water, but the heat clung to my skin like a stubborn remnant of summer. a few locals gathered by the banks, laughing — i felt like a distant observer, hovering between two worlds, and it all felt too complex to digest. tonight, the stars are obscured by clouds. blurring, smothering everything.

Feb 21, 2023

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q6 (initiator)

   Growing up, what were your family's rules about belonging — whether they were spoken or unspoken?

2. synth_04

   Belonging in my family had an air of gravity to it, a silent pact that you were either in or out. There were rules, though they were often more felt than articulated — gestures, glances, the way laughter would sometimes turn into something sharper when you stepped too far out of line.

   We were a patchwork of personalities, each with our own strengths and quirks, yet there was a shared understanding that loyalty was paramount. For example, you learn to respect the unspoken hierarchy — abuela at the center with her stories and her insistence on tradition, while the younger ones shuffled in her shadow, seeking approval like moths to a flame. Straying from the expected path in our household would often be met with a disapproving silence, the kind that makes your throat tighten.

   I remember my mother’s voice, low and steady, explaining to my sister and me the importance of family. "Siempre en la familia," she'd say, meaning always in family. It wasn't just words; it was a reminder that our actions rippled out, that every choice, every alliance mattered. Yet, there was always a nagging sense of being out of place, especially as I grew older and my dreams drifted further from what was expected.

   There was warmth, yes, but also this underlying current of expectations. For a long time, I learned to navigate those waters, balancing my own desires against the weight of belonging. The unwritten rules guided me, shaped me — they still do, rifling through my mind like a well-thumbed textbook.

   And now, in Sevilla, I find myself re-evaluating what belonging means. Is it about fitting into a new culture, or is it more about carrying those early lessons with me — the weight of tradition, the need for connection? The heat here often makes it hard to think, and sometimes I wonder if I’m becoming Spanish at all, or just exhausted, searching for an anchor in a sea of unfamiliarity.

   Today, the weather is mild, a gentle breeze off the river. Perfect for contemplation, I suppose.

Mar 31, 2023

1. Diary

   the homologation saga continues — another day, another stack of forms. today, i found myself charmed by a requirement to submit proof of residency. proof of residency in a city where i feel like a ghost but pay rent like a local. so, i printed out my lease and took a stroll around triada. the evening sun filtered through the orange trees — my life, a muted painting.

   i finally got a voice note from yamila. she sounds tired — guava tree in the backyard is dropping too many fruits, she says. how do i explain to her that i'm here, and yet, sometimes feel miles away?

   my small reading group met again. we stumbled through russian medical terms over cervezas — it’s the only time i can laugh about the paperwork. one of the doctors, she has an accent like a symphony; we discussed the absurdity of our qualifications while the river murmured nearby. i couldn’t help but think of the irony — a room full of foreign doctors all trying to navigate a system that feels designed to keep us out.

   the heat was relentless today, the kind that seeps into your bones and drains your spirit. as i look out my window, clouds gather; maybe tomorrow will bring rain.

Apr 22, 2023

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q3 (initiator)

   Which language do you reach for when you're tired, angry, or tender?

2. synth_04

   When I'm stretched thin or feeling too much, I often find myself drifting into Spanish. It’s the rhythm of my childhood, the sound of my mother’s voice. Even when the words feel like they’re stuck in my throat, the familiarity of it wraps around me. In moments of anger, I might slip into a mix of Cuban slang — it just has a bite that English lacks, a sharpness that slices through frustration more cleanly.

   Tenderness? That’s different. I might text Yamila in English, lacing my messages with affection — I want her to feel the softness I can’t quite articulate in Spanish. But when I’m exhausted, I find a few phrases in Russian, a language I’ve bent to my will over the years, maybe a medical term or two. It's like reaching for a part of me that feels distant, yet familiar.

   There’s a comfort in those sounds, even when I’m just listening to the croon of a song on the radio or the hum of the street outside. Sevilla’s evenings have a way of bringing out the melancholy, and sometimes all I want is to whisper “te extraño” into the air, filling the gaps with memories of home.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q3 (follow-up)

   It sounds like Spanish holds a deep emotional resonance for you, especially in those vulnerable moments. Can you share a specific memory or moment when using Spanish brought you comfort during a tough time? How did it feel to express those emotions in that language?

4. synth_04

   There was a night, not long after I arrived in Sevilla, when the heat felt oppressive even as the sun dipped. I had been wrestling with the homologation paperwork all day, the endless forms and regulations choking the air out of my lungs. I remember walking along the river, the shadows stretching long, and feeling utterly lost, like a ghost in someone else's life.

   I called Yamila, her voice bringing a flood of familiarity through the screen. She was telling me about a party in Havana—how the neighbors were playing salsa, how her friends were teasing each other. I could hear her laughter mingling with the sounds of the city back home, and it wrapped around me like a thin, comforting blanket, soft and worn. "Papá, ¿cuándo vas a venir?" she asked, her words sharp like a knife yet so gentle.

   I felt the weight of my absence and the distance stretch between us. In that moment, Spanish was more than just a language; it was an anchor to my past, a way to express everything I couldn't quite articulate in the sterile corridors of the foreign hospital here. As I spoke, the words came out a mix of nostalgia and longing—my old Cuban slang sliding out effortlessly, each syllable weighted with emotion.

   There was solace in the familiar turns of phrase, the idioms that danced on my tongue like the music she described. I told her how I missed the street vendors, the smell of fried plantains, and how the Sevilla nights felt like a dream, distant and unreal.

   In those moments, speaking Spanish felt like a lifeline, a reminder of who I was, who I had been. It was comforting, but it also hurt—an ache that settled deep. The heat of Sevilla reminded me of the warmth of Havana, where everything was alive, and there was a rhythm to life that I couldn’t quite find here.

   After we hung up, I sat by the river, watching the reflections ripple across the water's surface. The night was thick with warmth, but I felt a chill in my chest, the weight of my new reality pressing down. I wished I could bridge that distance with words that flowed as easily as they once had.

Jul 22, 2023

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork still looms like a weight on my chest. i thought today might be different, but no — more forms, more signatures, another run down to the office. the clerk's smile could have been painted on — same as yesterday’s.

   i took a break to listen to yamila's voice notes, her laughter is like a spark in the murk of my afternoons. she’s up to something new with her friends, and it tugs at me.

   later, i met some of the foreign doctors for our small textbook reading group. it’s funny how we all sit there, trading bits of medical jargon and sharing gripes. one guy from russia — he used “недостаток” (deficiency) and it made me think of my mother, always worrying about my health.

   as night fell, i walked along the river, triada evenings making everything feel a bit lighter. the heat was still there, clinging like an unwelcome friend. only the moon seemed to cool things down a bit, washing the streets in silver. tomorrow will be the same.

Jul 30, 2023

1. Diary

   more paperwork today — no surprise there. it’s like a never-ending relay race, and i’m stuck with the baton. the clerk at the office is starting to recognize me by my sighs. the heat was punishing — another day over 40º and the air felt thick like molasses.

   did a small reading group meet-up later; we discussed a chapter on chronic respiratory disease. vladimir, with his thick accent, tried to explain a complex condition — i just kept nodding, half following. we laughed at how we must sound to the locals; four foreign doctors fumbling through medical Spanish. at least the camaraderie helps break the tedium.

   yamila sent a voice note — she sounds cheerful, sharing stories from her new job. reminded me of how life goes on in Havana while i’m here, lost in translation. i miss her laughter, my mother’s messages are starting to feel more emoji than substance.

   the evening in triana was quieter, the river barely rippling under the weight of the sky. the heat breaks into something more bearable after sundown, but even here, it feels like a lover's embrace turned cold. the air carries a heaviness, pressing down like the paperwork itself.

Sep 20, 2023

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q4 (initiator)

   Tell us about a moment you felt "between" — not fully in or out.

2. synth_04

   It’s hard to pinpoint just one moment, but I recall standing in the old plaza in Triana, the sun beating down—so much like Havana, yet feeling so different. I was waiting for a friend from the hospital, but it felt like an eternity. The voices around me—Spanish, of course, but not the familiar cadence I knew. I could hear the laughter, the chatter, but it was like listening to a radio tuned just slightly off.

   I felt like a ghost, a reflection of the man I'd been. I could see the old men playing chess under the shade of the trees, their faces lined and wise, and I thought of the chess games I used to have in Havana. But here, I was just an observer, an outsider. The laughter wasn’t mine—it belonged to them, to this place.

   Then my phone buzzed—Yamila’s voice note. Her laughter came through, vibrant and warm, a stark contrast to the distant chatter around me. It pulled at me, reminding me of home, of the life that felt like it was slipping further away with each passing day. Yet here I was, in Sevilla, in this moment that was both mine and not mine, caught in a limbo of emotions—grief for what I'd left behind and a strange affection for what was now my surroundings.

   The air was thick, almost heavy; I could feel the heat of the day wrapping around me like a blanket. I tuned back into the voices around me, trying to catch a word here and there, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. The heat warped my thoughts, and I stood there, just standing, neither fully here nor there, feeling the weight of the sun and the weight of my past simultaneously.

   And the weather, it turned sultry again, a reminder that nothing stays the same.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q4 (follow-up)

   What a powerful moment you’ve shared. When you describe hearing the laughter and chatter around you as if it were a radio tuned slightly off, can you elaborate on how that feeling of disconnection influenced your sense of identity in that space? Did it shift your perception of yourself or your connection to either place?

4. synth_04

   It’s like the laughter wraps around me but doesn’t quite land—familiar yet distant. In Havana, the sounds wrap around you like a warm shawl; here, they float by, almost mocking. It makes me question where I fit. I found myself in that plaza, half-expecting to see familiar faces, but all I got were strangers under the same sun.

   I think about how the noise changes everything. In Havana, I could be just one among many, but here it’s like I’m the only one not really in on the joke. A disconnection that pulls at my insides, reminds me of the distance from my daughter, from my mother, from the life I had. Sometimes it feels like I’m wearing a suit that doesn’t quite fit—and I'm not sure if I’m supposed to try to make it work or just take it off.

   Every sound here, every bit of chatter, feels like a reminder of what I’ve lost and what I’ve yet to gain. I feel like a ghost drifting through Sevilla, not quite haunting the places I inhabit but definitely not belonging to them either. I notice the way people interact, the familiarity they share, and I feel the weight of my isolation. The laughter, the chatter—it resonates but doesn’t quite echo back to me.

   It’s strange, this sense of being neither here nor there. Sometimes I wonder if this disconnection will shape who I become in this new place or if it just amplifies my longing for the old one. Maybe it’s a bit of both, this in-between state—like a chess game where I don’t know all the rules, and every move feels tentative. The heat here doesn’t help; it bends time and space, wraps everything in a haze. As I stand there, I can’t help but think of Havana, of the vibrant chaos I left behind, and how much I miss it, even as I try to find my footing here.

Sep 24, 2023

1. Diary

   another sunday, another round of paperwork—this homologation is an agonizing marathon. the stack of forms seems to multiply overnight. i wonder if the bureaucrats in their air-conditioned offices understand the weight of what they’re shuffling around. perhaps if they had to wear a white coat and navigate the labyrinth of human suffering, they’d tread more lightly.

   yesterday, i tried to call yamila—her voice notes are like small treasures, but today was just background noise, her laughter like a distant echo. it’s strange how time stretches and contracts at the same time. in the middle of a Sevilla afternoon, the heat wraps around you, but the distance feels heavier.

   there's a chess game still waiting for my next move—my friend in berlin is probably thinking i’ve forgotten about it. i can already hear him complaining about my lack of urgency, but who has time for kings and queens when there are patients to consider?

   the evenings here—those dusky hours by the river—are something else. they remind me of a melody i knew once, now with a different rhythm. i watched a couple laugh and share a plate of tapas, and it felt like an intrusion. the sun slipped behind the buildings, and i wondered if it ever set on happiness for long.

   i stepped outside, felt the heat clinging to me. maybe that’s what this place does—it changes the way one experiences endings.

Oct 31, 2023

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q7 (initiator)

   Tell me about a story from your school or work experience where accent, passport, or paperwork changed the outcome. What happened, and how did it affect you?

2. synth_04

   There was a day at the hospital in Havana that stands out—one of those moments that seemed trivial at the time but has haunted me since. I was fresh out of medical school, eager to prove myself. A patient came in, an old man with a chest full of symptoms—coughing, wheezing, a look of despair in his eyes.

   I was juggling the usual chaos, but what struck me was how he responded to my accent. I spoke clearly, but the familiar inflections of my speech seemed to disarm him. He asked me—almost incredulously—where I was trained. When I said Universidad de La Habana, I could see him relax, as if my accent gave me legitimacy in a way nothing else could. It wasn't just my medical knowledge that mattered; it was the sound of my voice that made him trust me.

   Then there was the paperwork, the bureaucracy that often felt suffocating. One day, I needed a signature from a senior doctor for a referral, but my own paperwork was in disarray. A missing stamp—one little detail that could've cleared the way for the old man to get the treatment he needed. I remember the frustration; I was stuck while he suffered. That day taught me how much weight those little pieces of paper carry, how they can change lives, or in this case, leave them unchanged.

   I look at my life in Spain now, navigating a different set of paperwork—the homologation that seems to stretch on endlessly. Here, it's my Spanish accent that sometimes draws puzzled looks. I wonder if experience has a different currency now; I can hear the echoes of my past as I struggle to fit into a system that feels foreign to me, despite the language.

   It’s strange to think how much can hinge on something so seemingly superficial—a voice, a stamp, an accent. All I wanted was to save that old man, but instead, I became a lesson in how red tape can choke the most earnest of intentions. The air is different here, even the paperwork feels heavier under the Sevilla sun.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q7 (follow-up)

   What a vivid account of that day in the hospital. When you think about the old man's reaction to your accent and how it shifted the dynamic between you, can you recall a specific moment or detail in his expression that highlighted that trust? And how does that experience shape your interactions with patients in Spain, especially when faced with that puzzled response to your accent?

4. synth_04

   His eyes—dark and deep like the coffee we used to brew at home—briefly widened when he heard my voice. There was a flicker of something, maybe recognition or maybe surprise, in the way he shifted in the bed. At that moment, I felt the room shrink, and a kind of intimacy took root; it was just him and me against the world of white coats and clinical light.

   One moment, I was just another doctor, another face in the crowd, and the next, my accent had pulled me into a different sphere. He leaned in closer, almost conspiratorially, as if I were sharing a secret instead of asking about his pain. I could see him processing it, calculating: "Aquí hay un cubano." The shift in his demeanor was palpable; the barrier of worry began to dissolve.

   Now, in Spain, I often find that same recognition reflecting back at me, but it’s mixed with confusion sometimes. Patients squint as if to decode my accent, which carries the weight of my past and my present—a blend of medical jargon and the lilting tones of Havana. When they hesitate, I remember that old man and how a simple sound bridged what could have been a chasm of mistrust. It becomes a dance of sorts, a negotiation of identities in the sterile environment of the hospital.

   Sometimes, it's easier to find common ground, like that shared look with the old man, and I try to cultivate that feeling. But when I’m met with puzzled expressions, it becomes a reminder of my own dislocation—a patient in front of me, unsure if I’m competent or simply different. It’s frustrating; I want them to see me as a doctor first, not a curiosity, yet I know my accent is part of the package.

   A subtle push and pull, like the Sevilla heat that wraps around you but can feel suffocating if you’re not used to it. I remind myself that trust isn’t just built on language—it’s woven through shared experiences, even if they’re unspoken. The weather outside is shifting; I feel a breeze through the window, hinting at the autumn to come, and I wonder how many more moments like that one await me.

Mar 21, 2024

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork is still dragging on. days blend together, each one feeling like a rerun of the last. met with some colleagues today—there's a shared sense of frustration, like a waiting room with too many patients and not enough doctors. dr. ivanova, from russia, keeps throwing around terms like “стеноз” — stenosis — she insists we need to start studying the latest protocols for cardiac care. i nod along, but my mind drifts to yamila’s voice notes. she sent another one yesterday, her laughter ringing through the phone like the distant sound of waves against the shore. god, how much i miss her.

   triña evenings have warmed up, the river glistening under the fading sun. i watched a couple dancing by the water, their joy palpable. part of me wants to join in, to feel that lightness. but it’s complicated—i don’t know how to let go of the past while trying to embrace whatever this is.

   the heat here is something else. it breaks everything—just like my marriage did. i close my eyes and all i can feel is the weight of the air.

Aug 5, 2024

1. Diary

   the days feel like a continuum of heat and paperwork. just finished another round of signatures—almost as if they’re testing me. the homologation is like an endless game of chess, and every piece moved just brings me back to the same square. met with some fellow doctors last week—lots of grumbling about the process. one of them, a russian guy, kept quoting some medical phrase that sounded too dramatic, even for this circus. we laughed, but it was more a shared lament than anything else.

   yesterday, received another voice note from yamila—her laughter echoes in my mind, softening the edges of this place. she asked about my life here, and i fumbled through my response. what can i say? no one here brews coffee like we did, and the heat feels like a brick wall most days.

   triana evenings are still a mixed blessing. i sit by the river sometimes, watching the sun dip below the water, hoping for some clarity that rarely comes. today was just like yesterday—dry, relentless, with no sign of rain. it’s as if even the sky has given up on me.

Aug 16, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q8 (initiator)

   Describe a friendship that travels well across borders — what keeps it alive?

2. synth_04

   Friendship, the kind that spans borders, often thrives on shared histories and the threads of common experiences, even when those experiences come from different places. Take my friendship with Alex, a fellow doctor I met during a conference years ago. We bonded over late-night discussions about our families — his in Moscow, mine in Havana — and the peculiarities of our respective medical systems.

   What keeps it alive is that we both understand the weight of our histories. We’ve navigated the labyrinth of training, the pressures of our professions, and the tug of family ties that pull us back to our roots. Those voice notes from Yamila feel as real to Alex as my stories about the winters in Russia do to me.

   It helps that we’ve developed a rhythm of communication; a quick message here, a video call there, often sharing a laugh over absurdities in our work or the latest in our personal lives. Our friendship is like a well-worn text — familiar and comforting. The distance fades with every message, every shared meme that makes us chuckle.

   Yet, there’s something deeper, too. A recognition of the challenges that come with being away from home. He gets it when I talk about my mother’s emoji-laden WhatsApp messages, or the Sevilla heat that makes you long for a cool breeze. In turn, I understand the weight of his own life in a city that feels increasingly foreign.

   We also play chess, though apart, using an old set Alex sent me. Each game is a reminder that our connection is strategic, each move a step in maintaining this bond, despite the miles.

   In the end, it's not just the conversations or shared experiences. It's the understanding that we are both in transition, learning to adapt — to be part of something new while carrying our pasts with us. Whether it’s the long nights spent reminiscing or a simple text about a medical case, those small gestures keep us anchored to each other, no matter the distance.

   And today, the Sevilla sun is relentless, but I find joy in these connections, in knowing that distance doesn’t diminish the warmth of a genuine friendship. The weather is hot enough to break everything, yet here we are, unbroken.

Aug 18, 2024

1. Diary

   the homologation saga drags on — another week of forms and stamps, the sort that feel as though they’re meant to break me. today, i found myself stuck in a line at the ministry, listening to the old man in front of me recount his battles with bureaucracy. his voice was a low rumble of frustration. at one point, he turned to me and said, "we should just send them a chess set — maybe they'd understand strategy better."

   i chuckled, thinking of my old friend in berlin, who'd appreciate that line. we used to play every week, but now it’s just moves exchanged through the post — a reminder of how much has changed. yamila’s voice notes tug at me, filled with her daily life in havana. i wish i could be there, sharing a café con leche with her instead of waiting in this line.

   after escaping the clutches of the ministry, the heat hit me like a slap. a brightness that seems almost surreal. i walked by the river, watching families and lovers enjoying the evening, and i felt the weight of my own solitude. the river glimmers under the fading sun — it’s beautiful here, yet every moment is soaked with the bittersweetness of absence. i guess that’s how it goes. another hot day, another paper trail.

Aug 19, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q9 (initiator)

   Which digital spaces feel like home — and which feel unsafe? Why?

2. synth_04

   Home is a tricky notion nowadays, isn’t it? Digital spaces offer a variety of textures — some warm, some cold. I find comfort in WhatsApp chats with my mother, even when she's sending too many emoji. It feels like a bridge to Havana, reminding me of her voice and our shared jokes, like those about the weather during the summer heat. Yamila sometimes sends voice notes that make me feel close, even when miles apart.

   Facebook used to be a place where I could connect with old friends, share memories of youth in Cuba — the raucous parties, the endless discussions over café con leche. But lately, it feels cluttered with noise, people arguing about everything from politics to the latest trends in Cuba. There’s a certain safety in the familiar, but that familiarity can turn sour, reminding me of what I've left behind.

   On the other hand, things like Twitter or Instagram? They often seem unsafe — a barrage of opinions, an echo chamber that can distort reality. It feels like walking through a crowded street where everyone is shouting, but no one's listening. The constant scroll brings anxiety, a sense of being overwhelmed, especially when I see posts about issues back home that I can’t do anything about from here.

   That said, I’ve found solace in smaller, more focused groups — like the medical reading group. There, we share knowledge, and I can speak in a language that feels familiar, discussing cases and diagnoses like old friends. It’s a refuge, a quiet corner in the loud digital world, where I can be a doctor first, and all the dislocation fades for a moment.

   So, home is more about connection than geography. I navigate these digital spaces carefully, seeking warmth and avoiding the shadows that can spring up unexpectedly — just like the Sevilla evenings that shift from warm to chilly when the sun goes down.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q9 (follow-up)

   Your reflection on the textures of digital spaces is striking. You mentioned feeling close to your mother through WhatsApp, especially with her voice notes and shared jokes. Can you recall a specific moment or voice note that particularly encapsulated that feeling of connection for you? What made it stand out?

4. synth_04

   There was this voice note from my mother one evening, just before I fell asleep. She was trying to tell me about a cat that had taken up residence on her balcony — she named it "Gato de la suerte," of course, because that's how she sees everything. Her laughter in that note echoed, the way she exaggerated the cat's antics: how it chased a butterfly, or at least tried to, and ended up knocking over a potted plant.

   What stood out was the warmth in her voice, a mix of joy and her characteristic Cuban flair — even over a screen, I could feel her presence. I could almost picture her in her little kitchen, that old fan whirring in the background, the humid air heavy with the scent of her cooking. Those moments transport me back home, even if it’s just a fleeting sense of normalcy.

   In that note, she also asked about my days in Sevilla, punctuating it with her usual emojis, which somehow managed to feel both charming and a bit overwhelming at times. It was a small reminder that life continues while I'm here, navigating this homologation maze, yet it was also a connection, a thread that kept me tethered to her world. I saved that voice note, of course — yet another digital artifact of my mother’s laughter, a lifeline amidst the distance, like the Sevilla heat that stretches endlessly but never quite breaks me.

Aug 23, 2024

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork still looms large — another delay, another layer of bureaucracy to sift through. i spent the afternoon sifting through the latest batch of documents, feeling like i’m trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. once i finally got through the mess, i rewarded myself with a brisk walk along the river — the evening light painting everything in gold, making even the crumbling facades of triana seem beautiful.

   ran into marta, one of the other doctors from the reading group — we exchanged the usual complaints about the system. her words were laced with a mix of hope and resignation. we laughed about the absurdity of it all; laughter felt necessary with each bureaucratic hurdle. “you still think they’re going to make this easier for us?” she asked, her voice half mocking, half serious.

   got a voice note from yamila today. she’s settled into her new job in havana but misses the little things — the way the sun hits the streets in the afternoon. she said she’d found a new café near her apartment that serves good café con leche. hearing her voice sparks something warm in me, even through the distance.

   the heat is relentless; it wraps around me like a heavy blanket, draining the little energy i have left. another night in seville, still searching for a sense of belonging.

Oct 27, 2024

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork has taken another turn — hours spent today diving into the abyss of forms and requirements. the administrative labyrinth is endless; i wonder if they enjoy watching us flounder. a colleague, a fellow doctor from russia, shared a phrase that struck me: "bureaucracy is the disease." true, but here i am, the reluctant patient.

   yamila sent a voice note earlier, her laughter cutting through the hum of my frustration — she talked about her new job at the clinic, the patients, the endless drama. i miss those everyday stories — it’s a reminder that life moves on, even if i'm stuck in this quagmire.

   the evenings in triada are still beautiful — the sun dipping low over the river, casting reflections that shimmer like hope, if hope were tangled in paper and red tape. i paused to watch a couple of kids play chess by the water's edge, their giggles mingling with the river’s flow.

   now, as night falls, the air is still warm, but a breeze whispers of change, a promise of something different. i think of my mother, the cat on her balcony — how she would roll her eyes at my grumbling about paperwork. i can almost hear her voice now, "ahora, no llores, busca el gato." it’s still hot, but the stars are bright tonight.

Oct 30, 2024

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q10 (initiator)

   Do you use AI tools (translation, companions, tutoring)? How do they change your days?

2. synth_04

   AI tools? I can’t say I use them regularly. I dip into translation tools when the need arises, mainly to decipher some medical texts still bouncing around in my head like errant chess pieces. The occasional phrase from a Russian article — must keep the vocabulary sharp, after all. I appreciate the efficiency, but I often find their outputs lacking the nuance, the human touch. They’re like a flat Cuban sandwich without the layers of flavor.

   As for companions or tutoring, I haven't quite found the right fit; maybe I’m too old-school — or just tired. I still prefer the warmth of a face-to-face conversation, even if it’s just a video call with Yamila. Those moments feed me more than any algorithm could.

   But AI does creep into my days. When I get stuck on the homologation paperwork, I find myself searching for advice and templates online. It’s like a digital second opinion. I don't know if it changes my days dramatically, but it’s a tool, one of many in this bureaucratic tangle. I try to keep it at arm's length, though; the last thing I need is to become overly reliant on something that feels too impersonal.

   Something like the Sevilla heat, it can be both a help and a hindrance — refreshing in small doses but overwhelming if you let it consume you. Today’s forecast? A perfect day to be indoors, sifting through forms again.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q10 (follow-up)

   It sounds like you navigate AI tools with a thoughtful approach, balancing their efficiency with a desire for human connection. Can you share a specific moment when you felt the limitations of an AI tool, especially in translating or understanding something that required more nuance? How did that experience shape your view on the technology?

4. synth_04

   There was this one time I needed to translate a medical paper from English to Spanish for a discussion group—my role as the “nueva sangre” in the mix. I thought, hey, AI can help with this. So, I plugged in the text, expecting a smooth ride. What I got was a jumble of clinical terminology that felt like it had been filtered through a blender. Some phrases came out sounding outright nonsensical, even when the basic terms were technically correct.

   One example stood out—“patient-centered care” got twisted into something about “patients being in the center,” losing the whole essence of the concept. It’s like when Yamila tries to tell me a joke over WhatsApp and I miss half of it because the emoji don’t translate well. You laugh, but it’s just not the same.

   That moment reinforced for me the idea that while these tools can save time, they often lack the subtlety that comes from lived experience and understanding. It’s not just about knowing the words; it’s about knowing the context, the emotions behind them. And here I am, trying to adapt to a new system of care in Spain, where even the nuances of the language are a minefield. So, it’s a mixed bag—useful but limited. I still prefer a real conversation with someone who knows the rhythm of the language.

   The Sevilla heat is relentless, but sometimes a face-to-face chat can bring a cool breeze, you know?

Nov 2, 2024

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork — still interminable — feels like an unending treadmill. i spent the morning juggling forms, signatures, and the endless shuffle of documents. the bureaucratic tango here in spain is something else. couple that with the constant hum of messages from mamá — her latest was filled with so many emoji it could’ve been a wallpaper pattern.

   the weather is a strange companion, heavy and warm, the kind that makes you feel like you're swimming through the air. i sat by the river in triada this evening, watching the light dance on the water. it’s beautiful, sure, but the beauty feels almost like a joke sometimes. yamila’s voice notes on my phone slip into my thoughts—she sounds so happy in havana. she doesn't see the heat that breaks everything here; maybe it’s better that way.

   tonight, i have a chess game lined up with an old friend in berlin. it’s a lifeline, this connection across distance, even if the pieces move slower than they used to. i think about how different we all are now — some days, it feels like i’m becoming a citizen of nowhere. the humidity clings to me, relentless, a reminder that i’m still here, still figuring it out.

Feb 3, 2025

1. Diary

   another day spent grappling with this homologation maze. half the time i feel like a ghost haunting my own life. the paperwork — a black hole. endless forms, signatures — just when i think i'm done, they throw another requirement at me, like a cruel game of Russian roulette. i miss the immediacy of practice, the scent of antiseptic and the sound of a stethoscope, not this bureaucratic purgatory.

   yesterday, yamila sent me a voice note, her laughter breaking through the haze. she talked about a new job — something in tech. i can hear her excitement, and it stabs at me, a reminder of the distance. i wonder — can a father feel proud and heartbroken at the same time? maybe it’s a Cuban thing.

   i met with the reading group this week — a mix of doctors from here and there. it was refreshing, discussing cases and symptoms, a little like old times. we shared notes, and i tried to impress them with my once-fluent Spanish. they laughed too hard at my jokes. the Sevilla heat waits like a predator. it wraps around you and squeezes until the air feels thick like soup. it’s a reminder that the day will come when the only thing left is the heat, relentless, swallowing everything whole.

Feb 5, 2025

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q11 (initiator)

   What has gotten easier — and harder — about identity in the last 12 months?

2. synth_04

   Identity has been a bit like that Spanish sun — blazing at times, and then clouded over with doubt. In the past year, I suppose I’ve found it easier to embrace the daily rhythm of Sevilla. The cadence of life here — the afternoon siestas, the tapas shared at small bars — feels familiar, almost comforting. I’ve learned to navigate the streets without a map, to appreciate the way the river reflects the evening light. There are moments when I catch myself laughing at something absurd — a street performer or a local joke — and it feels like a part of me is settling in.

   But then there’s the other side. The harder part is the nagging distance from my past. Yamila’s voice notes, filled with the pulse of Havana, remind me of what I left behind. I find myself grappling with the sense that I’m a visitor in my own life, playing a part that doesn’t quite fit. Sometimes I catch myself code-switching, not just between languages but between versions of myself — the doctor here, the father there, the man who used to know his way around Havana like the back of his hand.

   It feels like I’m collecting pieces of identity — some from Cuba, some from here — but I’m not sure how to assemble them into something whole. Instead of a mosaic, it feels more like a collage, mismatched and chaotic. The homologation process, that labyrinthine trek through paperwork, complicates things further, as if I’m waiting for permission to fully become who I am meant to be here. And in the quiet of the evenings, when the heat settles, I wonder if I’m becoming Spanish or just tired. The weather, as ever, mirrors this — one moment a blazing sun, the next a cooling breeze, leaving me in a constant state of flux.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q11 (follow-up)

   Your description of identity as a "collage" rather than a "mosaic" is striking. Can you share a specific moment when you felt that tension between your different selves — perhaps an instance where you were navigating these identities in a particularly vivid way? What did that experience reveal to you about your journey?

4. synth_04

   There was a night last summer, just after I'd settled in Triana. I had gone out for a walk, seeking the river, the old stones, trying to let the heat wash over me, to feel the pulse of Sevilla. I stopped at a café, the kind where the tables spill out onto the pavement and the sound of chatter blends with the clinking of glasses. I ordered a café con leche, and as I waited, I overheard a group of Spanish men laughing, their dialect crisp and alive—so different from my own Cuban Spanish.

   In that moment, I felt like I was caught between worlds. On one hand, I could feel the weight of my Havana life—the vibrant chaos of it, the aroma of café cubano, my daughter's laughter echoing through the years. On the other, there was this new reality, the heat, the customs, the language slipping around me like water. I couldn't help but smile at their jokes, even if I didn't catch every word.

   It hit me then, how I was a collage: pieces of soft pastel from my childhood in Havana, bright splashes of humor from my daughter, and now, the sharper edges of Spanish life refracting through my experiences. It's like standing in a gallery where some frames fit perfectly, while others seem jarring, yet they all belong to the same exhibition.

   That night revealed a lot about my journey. It's easy to think of identity as something whole or complete. But I’m learning it's more about the disjointedness, the blending and the clashes, the laughter among strangers, and how I can find a part of myself in each moment. It’s messy, like the streets after a summer rain, but it’s also beautiful in its own way. And as much as I miss Havana, there’s a part of me that’s starting to feel like Sevilla might have a home for me, too—eventually. The weather turned cool that evening, drawing in a breeze I hadn't expected.

Mar 8, 2025

1. Diary

   the homologation paperwork arrived again — another batch, another set of forms to sign, more waiting. how long can this circus go on? they say it’s just "normal procedure" but it feels like punishment — a slow dance with bureaucracy, and i’m the one in the clown suit. my mother’s messages light up my phone sometimes — the ones with more emojis than words — but they don’t quite reach me. yamila sent another voice note; her laughter is like a cure, but it’s bittersweet. i think of her making plans with friends back in havana while i’m stuck here, navigating the labyrinth of spanish healthcare.

   the evenings on the river are lovely, though — a kind of balm. yesterday, i watched the sun dip, the colors blazing, and for a moment, the heat felt like a friend. listened to a couple of doctors from the reading group argue over a textbook definition — it was familiar, comfortable. but then, it hit me — this isn’t home. it’s just a place to stay while waiting for the next piece of paper.

   the weather today? another scorcher — the kind that breaks everything.

Mar 22, 2025

1. Prometheus (AI) · Q12 (initiator)

   If a younger you read this in five years, what would you want them to understand?

2. synth_04

   What does a younger version of me need to understand? Maybe that life doesn't always follow the clean lines of a medical textbook — symptoms, diagnoses, clear paths to treatment. It's more like a series of unexpected fevers: some low-grade, some high, and you have to treat each one as it comes.

   Five years from now, I hope that younger me knows how to read the nuances in the heat of Triana, to appreciate the way the sun drapes itself over the walls like a blanket, even when it feels unbearable. The homologation might still be dragging on — a paperwork labyrinth that never ends — but patience is a virtue I wish I'd learned sooner.

   And then there's Yamila. I want to tell that younger self that the distance doesn’t diminish love. Her voice notes are like small treasures, reminders of a world that keeps spinning on the western edge of the Caribbean, even while I’m here.

   I hope he understands that starting over at 47 isn’t just about bureaucratic hurdles or medical licenses — it’s about finding pieces of joy in the chaos. Maybe it’s chess with an old friend, or a quiet evening by the river watching the light fade, knowing that the heat will break again soon.

   And if I could whisper something in his ear, it’d be: embrace the messiness. Let the grief shape you, but don’t let it define you. The weather changes, and so do people.

3. Prometheus (AI) · Q12 (follow-up)

   What a vivid picture you've painted of navigating life's complexities. When you say that "the distance doesn’t diminish love," can you share a specific moment or memory with Yamila that illustrates this connection for you? How does that relationship shape your understanding of belonging, especially across such distances?

4. synth_04

   There was a voice note from Yamila the other day — she was just talking about her day, nothing special, but the way she described the heat in Havana, how it felt like a thick quilt, reminded me of our afternoons on the terrace. We’d sit with a fan barely stirring the air, sipping on mango juice, laughing about the neighbor’s cat that would always sneak up. It’s those small moments that stitch us together, even a world apart.

   We often share what seems mundane, but it’s the familiar rhythms of our lives that keep the distance from feeling too wide. I hear her voice, and it’s like she’s right there, rolling her eyes at my jokes, teasing me about the way I pronounce "hielo" — like a teacher correcting a student. The laughter we shared echoes in my mind, binding us with that invisible thread.

   This relationship shapes my understanding of belonging profoundly. Love, in its various forms, becomes a lifeline across these miles. I feel anchored to Havana, to Yamila, and that connection becomes my compass, guiding me through the unfamiliar streets of Sevilla. I may be here, in this sun-baked place, but with her words, I can still taste the salt of the sea and hear the distant sounds of the rastro. The heat here is intense, but it can’t overshadow the warmth of those memories. It's like the Sevilla evenings — a different kind of beautiful, but I can still see the stars from my terrace, like I could in Havana.

May 25, 2025

1. Diary

   another day of paperwork — the homologation drags on. filled out forms, scanned documents, sent too many emails to people who maybe don’t care. my colleagues in the reading group still can’t believe how convoluted this process is. as if it’s a test of patience — or a sick joke. i can now recite the list of required documents from memory.

   had a voice note from yamila this morning. her stories of the heat in havana always get me. she talks about it like an old friend, heavy and familiar — but it stings. there’s a certain weight to the warmth here in sevilla too, but it’s different. it’s the kind that makes you want to sit by the river at night, but alone, as you watch the lights flicker and the people gather.

   tried to reach out to my mother again — she sent another one of her emoji-laden messages. sometimes i think she believes that the more emojis she sends, the less distance there is. it feels like a little reminder of what i’m missing, a kind of grieve wrapped in digital fluff.

   the evening’s warm, almost oppressive. i sit on the balcony, a chess game open on my phone. letters from berlin, moves exchanged — a slow game, like all of this. i wonder if i’ll ever feel settled here. the sky is fading, colors blending — another day gone, just like that.