Somewhere Between Leaving and Arriving.

The first three months on Oahu didn’t feel like the cinematic reset I thought it would be.
It was quieter than that. More contained. Almost like life had softened instead of expanded.
It felt like learning how to exist again in a place that didn’t know me yet. At least not this version of me.

I was 17 when I left Hawaii. I’m 33 now, and everything about being back feels unfamiliar in a way I didn’t expect. Not new exactly. Just distant. Like something I once knew well but can’t fully access anymore.

I remember the first morning in my apartment.

The light came in differently. Softer, but somehow clearer. The air felt warmer, heavier. I sat there longer than I needed to, just listening. No traffic. Just birds, wind, and something steady in the distance that I couldn’t quite name.

And lately, it’s been raining.

Not just passing showers, but steady, lingering rain that settles into the day. The kind that makes everything feel slower. More internal. Like the island is asking you to sit still whether you want to or not.

At the beginning, everything felt provisional.

I went to the store and bought only what I needed. I left boxes unpacked. Told myself I’d get to them later, like I wasn’t fully convinced I was staying.

Even the smallest decisions felt unfamiliar. Where to shop. What to cook. How to move through a place where everything felt just slightly out of sync with who I had become.
People move differently here.

Not slower in a careless way, but in a way that feels deliberate. Like there’s no rush to get anywhere other than where you already are.

There were moments that didn’t feel real.

Driving along the water and having to pull my attention back to the road because it felt too unreal to look at for too long. Watching the sunset and noticing how people stop for it. Not out of obligation, but because they want to be there for it.

And then there were the quiet moments.

Coming home to a space that was still becoming mine. Sitting in the stillness. Cooking for one. Eating without distraction. Letting the day settle on its own.

That was the part that stayed with me.

Because being here wasn’t just about the move. It was about being alone in a way I hadn’t experienced before. No built-in rhythm. No familiar presence. No one to soften the silence when it started to feel too loud.

There were moments I missed people in ways that surprised me.

Not in a heavy or overwhelming way. Just in the small, everyday things. Sharing a meal. Saying something out loud instead of keeping it to myself. Hearing someone else exist in the same space.

And I miss Ryan.

There’s something about knowing he’s in Los Angeles while I’m here that makes the distance feel more real than I expected. Being in a long distance relationship isn’t dramatic in the way people make it seem. It’s quieter than that. It’s in the pauses. In the moments where I instinctively reach for him and remember he’s not here. It’s loving someone fully, while learning how to live a life that doesn’t include their physical presence every day.

But somewhere in all of this, something started to shift.

Life began to fill in around the quiet.

I’ve started meeting people. Slowly at first, then more naturally. The kind of friendships that don’t feel forced, just built over shared time and small moments.
I joined a kickball team. A bowling league.

Things that feel simple on the surface, but somehow became anchors in my week. Spaces where I didn’t have to overthink who I was. Where I could just show up, laugh, move, exist alongside people who were also just trying to find their rhythm.

Friends from other states have already visited.

Seeing them here, in this version of my life, felt surreal. Like two worlds overlapping for a moment. Familiar faces in a place that still feels new to me.

And in those moments, I realized something.

I’m not as alone here as I thought I was.

But I’m also learning how to be.

I started noticing myself again.

Not all at once. Not in some defining, life-changing way. Just small things. Taking walks without needing a reason. Paying attention to how my body felt. Wanting to move. Wanting to take care of myself, not for anyone else, but because I finally had the space to.

I began to build small routines.

Morning coffee at my desk.
Walks before the sun got too high.
Music playing in the background while I cleaned, even if no one else was there to hear it.

And over time, the space started to change.

I unpacked more. Left things out. Let the apartment reflect me instead of feeling like somewhere I was passing through. I stopped questioning whether I’d still be here next week.

At some point, without really noticing when, it stopped feeling temporary.

Not in a way that felt settled.

More like something in between.

I’m not arriving in some big, obvious way.

I’m still figuring it out.

But I am here.

Living a life that still feels unfamiliar, sometimes quiet, sometimes lonely, but fuller than I expected.

And I think that’s what these first three months really were.

Not a transformation. Not a clean beginning.

Just the slow work of trying to find balance.

Figuring out what it means to build something sustainable.

To create routines that can actually hold me.

To invest in a life that feels steady, even if I don’t know how long I’ll be here.

One where the rain comes and stays a little longer.

Where new people slowly become familiar.

Where distance teaches you what matters.

And where I’m learning to stay present, instead of trying to define what this is too quickly.

Because maybe it doesn’t need to be permanent to be real.

Maybe it just needs to be lived.

After Us.

Ive been sitting with my thoughts more lately. And it’s been a while since I’ve written like this, but something about this moment feels worth holding on to. So I’m letting myself slow down to revisit a memory that’s been resurfacing lately as I navigate new friendships and a renewed sense of love. 

—————

It’s strange what time does.

Many years later and I’ve forgotten the small things. 

I don’t remember the exact sound of your laugh anymore.
Or the way your voice changed depending on who you were talking to.
I can’t recall the little habits I used to know so well, the things that once felt permanent, like they were etched into me.

They’ve faded.

Not all at once.

Not in some dramatic, heartbreaking way.
Just slowly. 

Quietly.
Like something being washed away over time until one day you realize it’s gone.

And I think that used to scare me.
The idea that someone who once knew me so deeply, whether as a friend or something more, could become distant like that. 

That memories could blur. 

That details could disappear.

But now it feels different.

Because even though I’ve forgotten the small things,

I remember how it felt.
I remember the closeness.
The way we could talk about anything.
The way, at one point in my life, you were someone I chose and trusted, fully and without hesitation.

And every now and then, you still cross my mind.

Not in a way that pulls me backward.
Not in a way that makes me wish things were different.

But in a quiet, passing thought.
Like wondering what your life looks like now.
If you found the things you were searching for.

If you became the person you were trying to grow into.

I don’t miss you in the way I used to.
But I care in a way that doesn’t need anything in return.
I’ve always said I’d be in your corner.
And even though life took us in completely different directions, even though we don’t speak anymore, I meant that.

I still do.

So wherever you are, whoever you’ve become,
I hope you’re happy.
I hope life has been kind to you.
I hope you’ve found people who understand you in ways that matter.
I hope you’ve built something that feels like peace.

And maybe that’s what time really gives you.
Not forgetting in a painful way,
but in a peaceful one.

Where what once was everything, becomes something softer.
Something distant, but still respected.
Still held with care.
Not love in the way it used to be.
But something close to it.