I finally find a place,
Where laughter doesn't need explanation,
Where jokes land softly like snowflakes,
And sarcasm isn’t mistaken for cruelty,
But welcomed like an old friend—
A shared wink in a silent room.
They speak in honesty,
With voices that carry no threat,
No masks hiding intentions,
Only the quiet courage
To be as they are.
They feel openly—
Their joy, their weariness, their awe—
Unhidden in their eyes.
And when I need space,
All I have to do is ask.
They respect that here.
Imagine that.
Just the other day I sat by a window,
Fork in hand, heart a little softer,
Eating Swedish meatballs.
The scent alone pulled me
Across time and country lines—
Back to my childhood in Hungary,
To the laughter of school friends,
The rustle of paper napkins,
The warmth of lunchtime stories.
It’s strange, the things we carry.
How a flavor can hold an entire season.
How the sound of a new language
Can remind you of a silence
You’ve longed to fill.
I met someone in Denmark.
He isn’t loud,
He doesn’t boast.
But his kindness stands tall,
Like the spires of Copenhagen.
He speaks in slow waves—
Words I want to bottle,
Moments I want to press between pages
Like dried flowers from a northern field.
We didn’t plan much,
But for a moment, I dreamed.
Of bicycles and Sunday markets,
Of winter walks and simple dinners,
Of mornings where no one had to pretend.
He smiled at me like I was real.
But tomorrow, I go back.
Back to the city where nothing fits,
To the rhythm of gray trains and gray thoughts.
To conversations that scrape the surface
And people who ask how you are
But don't wait for the answer.
A life too loud,
Too empty.
Too much pretending to care,
Too little space to breathe.
And yet—
Here in the North, I tasted something else.
A gentleness I didn’t know I was starving for.
A future I didn’t know was waiting.
Give me just a few more years.
Let me work,
Let me save,
Let me dream without shame.
I will come back.
Not to chase a man,
Not to run from something—
But to build.
A small apartment with wooden floors,
Plants on the windowsill,
A record player spinning soft music
While the snow falls like secrets outside.
I’ll hang my coat next to someone else’s.
Maybe his.
Maybe not.
But mine, finally mine.
I’ll learn the language—not just words,
But how to belong.
How to ask for help without fear.
How to be alone without being lonely.
I’ll make friends who don’t ask why I’m quiet.
Who know the value of silence shared,
Of tea made without asking,
Of hugs that ask no questions.
I’ll find work that doesn’t drain me,
But makes me feel useful,
Part of something bigger than survival.
I’ll ride buses through the fog,
Walk under streetlamps in the early dark,
And feel safe.
Truly safe.
I’ll breathe in the salt wind
Among the northern ocean,
Watch waves stitch the sky to the sea,
And know that I am part of this rhythm too—
The ebb and return,
The longing and the finding.
This is not a fantasy.
It’s a plan.
It’s a slow becoming.
It’s hope, not as escape,
But as a map.
This is where I belong.
Among the pine trees and still lakes,
Among quiet people and real smiles.
Among kindness, peace, and space to grow.
This is where I begin again.
Not smaller,
But fuller.
Not broken,
But rebuilt.
This is where I will come home
To myself.
