Letters Across the Ocean

October 14th

Dear Maya,

I am writing directly into the journal you gave me before my family boarded our flight. I like to pretend each line is a letter flying straight to your front porch. It has been three weeks since we unpacked our bags in this rainy city, and I am still trying to find my rhythm here.

From my attic bedroom window, the city looks like a maze of stone rooftops and brick chimneys. In the early morning, a thick gray fog rolls off the river and covers the streetlamps. In photos, it looks like an exciting adventure. Yet, nobody warns you about the lonely feeling you get when no one on the busy sidewalk knows your name, your favorite joke, or how you like your hot chocolate.

Yesterday was my first time riding the public tram by myself. Standing on the crowded platform, I felt almost invisible. Everyone else moved quickly, swiping their transit cards and stepping onto the train without looking up. I dropped my umbrella twice and struggled to squeeze into a corner. People around me spoke with an unfamiliar cadence and used words I had never heard before. Even though we speak the same language, their accents made me feel like an outsider. When the conductor checked my ticket, my quiet voice gave away how nervous I was.

At lunchtime, I decided to skip the loud cafeteria and walk to the old town square. The square has smooth cobblestones that shine after it rains. Tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, I found a tiny bakery. The baker smiled kindly and suggested a warm pastry spiced with cardamom. I sat on a bench under a large chestnut tree and watched pigeons dodge passing bicycles. The sweet treat was so fragrant and comforting that the city suddenly felt a little friendlier—less like a giant wall and more like a puzzle I could solve.

Even so, the hardest part is how quiet my room feels in the evening. Back home, our laughter filled the whole neighborhood until dinner time. Here, the silence feels magnified. I wonder if fitting in means changing who I am, or if it just takes patience to feel at home. Maybe home is not just a place you leave, but something you slowly build one day at a time.

I miss you very much. Save a seat for me by the lockers, even if only in spirit.

Your friend, Elena