Somewhere Between Leaving and Arriving.

The first three months on Oahu didn’t feel like a quite the cinematic change I wanted it to. 

It actually felt smaller than that. Quieter. A bit more personal.
It was like learning how to exist again in a place that didn’t know me yet, at least the version of me today.

I was only 17 when I left Hawaii. I’m 33 now and somewhat of an adult so everything feels so new. Like a distant memory that I can’t quite remember. 

I remember the first morning I woke up in my new apartment. The light came in differently. Softer, but brighter at the same time. The air felt heavier, warmer. I sat there there for a while, just listening. No traffic like I was used to. Just birds, wind, and something steady in the distance.

At first, everything felt temporary. Like I was just visiting my own life.

I was going to the store and buying things I thought I might need, but not too much. 

I didn’t unpack everything right away. I told myself I would get to it later, like I wasn’t fully convinced I was staying.

Even simple things felt unfamiliar. Figuring out which grocery store I liked. Learning where to buy things and what to make. Realizing that people here move differently. Not slower in a lazy way, but slower in a way that feels intentional.

There were moments that felt almost too beautiful to be real. Like driving along the beaches and having to remind myself to keep my eyes on the road because the water looked so unreal. Watching the sunset and noticing how people actually stopped to look at it. Not just glance, but stop. Like it matters.

And then there were the quiet moments.

Coming home at night to an apartment that was still becoming mine. Sitting on the couch with nothing on, just listening to the air move through the windows. Cooking for one. Eating in silence. Letting the day settle without distraction.

That was the part that hit the hardest.
Because moving here wasn’t just about the place. It was about being alone in a way I hadn’t been before.
No built in routines. No familiar faces. No one to fill the silence when it got too loud in my own head.
There were nights I missed people more than I expected. Not in a dramatic way. Just small things. Sharing a meal. Saying something out loud instead of thinking it. Hearing someone else move around in the same space.

But something else started happening too.
I started noticing myself again. Not in a deep, life changing realization. Just small things at first. Going on walks without needing a destination. Paying attention to how my body felt. Wanting to move again. Wanting to take care of myself, not for anyone else, but because I had the time and space to.

I started creating little routines. 

Morning coffee by the window.

A walk before the sun got too high.

Letting music play while I cleaned, even if no one else was there to hear it.

And slowly, the apartment started to feel less like a temporary place and more like somewhere I was actually living.

I unpacked more things. Put small pieces of myself into the space. Left a book open on the table instead of putting it away. Bought groceries without thinking about whether I would still be here next week.
Somewhere in those three months, it stopped feeling like I was visiting.

It started feeling like I had arrived. Not in a finished way. Not in a way where everything suddenly made sense. I was still figuring things out. Still healing in ways I couldn’t always name. Still adjusting to the distance between me and the people I care about.

But I was here.

Living a life that felt unfamiliar, sometimes lonely, but also honest.

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

Not a transformation. Not a clean new beginning. Just the quiet, steady process of learning how to be okay in a new place, with a new version of myself, and trusting that over time, it will start to feel like home.

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.