I woke before anyone else.
The dorm was still dark, the hush of sleep thick in the air.
I lay there on the top bunk, breathing slowly, meditating beneath the faint rhythm of someone else’s breath.
Outside the window, light began its slow bloom—gray-blue at first, then gold at the edges.
Silently, I stripped my bed, folded the sheets, and gathered my things.
Living with strangers means planning your movements like choreography:
no noise, no zippers, no dropped objects.
At the corner near the hallway, there was a faded sofa.
I sat there and packed.
No rush. Just habit.
This kind of life teaches you that even departure has a ritual.
Showered, checked out, and yet—I stayed.
I sat in the common area and read, then promptly fell asleep again.
Maybe it’s my comfort cortex, as I call it.
The part of my brain responsible for “wakefulness with purpose.”
It’s been on extended vacation for years.
I’ve been thinking—if I ever return here again, maybe I’ll book a private cabin with a shared bathroom.
Or a modest hotel tucked somewhere quiet, where I can sit, write, meditate
—without anyone watching.
I never used to care.
But now?
Now I want space.
Now I want a bed with a curtain.
Now I want to disappear without explanation.
Funny how age doesn’t make you loud.
It just makes you softer,
and more precise about your boundaries.
And then, I left.
The bus was waiting, the next country already somewhere ahead of me.
No goodbyes. No final walk through Old Town.
Just footsteps and motion.
You know where I was heading?
Riga. Latvia.
Another city. Another chance to wander.
Another page, blank and waiting.
