I had been staying home—Home Malone, I’d call it—with too much time and too many thoughts.

Too much silence, yet not the peaceful kind. The kind that echoes all your past failures back at you like a cruel soundtrack on loop. Work, love, life—none of it had changed. Except maybe this: the rejections had become quieter. Less dramatic, more expected. And in a way, that numbness felt worse than pain.

So I returned to an old instinct, something I used to do in my younger years—when life felt more like a question and less like a trap. I booked a solo trip with no plan. No itinerary. No must-see lists or dinner reservations. I didn’t care where I ended up. All I knew was I needed to move.

To breathe.

I packed light. A carry-on, a backpack. No laptop—just an old iPad for reading and writing. A book I’d probably never finish, and two DSLR cameras in case beauty showed up and I remembered how to see it.

No apps. No Google Maps. I printed every ticket and direction on paper like it was still 2007. I’ve always liked things I can touch—paper, books, real buttons. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Or maybe it’s that too much tech makes me feel more controlled than free.

The ferry to Tallinn was booked for early morning. Not my first time in that city—but it would be the first time I’d go alone. No one to wait for. No one to adjust for. No one to keep me from walking slow or crying in public or spending an hour at some forgotten bench by the water.

I’d have to wake up around five. I hadn’t packed my emotions yet, but everything else was ready. My mind was still cluttered, but my bag was clean.

I wasn’t heading to Tallinn. Not really.
I was heading somewhere deeper.
Somewhere maps couldn’t reach.