For you, I'd stand still

Four O'Clock

Zürich is a city of quiet beauty, of modern antiquity, its streets lined with centuries-old buildings and its people moving with a sense of purpose that makes me feel out of place. The train station's rush is behind me now, and I wander through cobblestone streets, the cold air nipping at my skin even beneath the new coat. The sky is grey, heavy with the threat of rain or snow, and I feel like an intruder here even though I've been here countless times – an outsider passing through, as I always do.

I don't remember choosing Zürich. Like so many other cities, it was a name on a map, a place to disappear into for a while before moving on. But being here, amidst its quiet, Zürich always feels strangely familiar. It stirs something in me, a longing I can't quite place, though I know I won't stay long enough to figure it out.

I've been walking for what feels like hours, but my mind has drifted, numb to the passage of time. I'm only brought back to the present when I hear the distant toll of a church bell. I sigh. Four o'clock. The chime echoes in the narrow streets, bouncing off the walls of old buildings and through the thinning air.

I stop in my tracks and let the sound wash over me. There's something unsettling about it, the way it seems to reverberate inside my chest. It's not just a marking of time – it feels like a signal, a reminder that my time here, like everywhere else, is running out. And yet, here I am, standing still. Dangerous. I can't afford to linger. The tingling feeling reminds me of that every time. I never dared to go further than this; to challenge this feeling; to see what happens though the voice in my head knows the outcome very well.

But my feet won't move. The tingling worsens. It turns into pain. Pain I've never experienced before as it is not entirely physical, nor psychological.

My thoughts drift back to València, to Ilsy and Mateo. His name on the drawing feels like a ghost in my hand, tucked inside my coat pocket. "Mi hermoso destino," he wrote. "My beautiful destiny." I let out a bitter laugh as I think of it now. Destiny. I don't believe in such things. I am not allowed to. Not when my life is defined by running away from it.

I pull the drawing out again, carefully unfolding it. His lines are soft, full of care, almost reverent. The way he captured me...it's as if he saw something in me that I can't see in myself. Something worth staying for. I wonder what I look like through his eyes. I wonder if he thought about me after I left, or if it was just another fleeting moment in his life, something he could fold away like this paper and store as a memory.

For a moment there, I consider daring to stay still forever. Suddenly, the pain becomes comforting, like someone is saying "You can let go now", but my heart begins to race, and my foot already hovers above the ground, ready to take the next step. So, I do.

The city feels different now. Like it's watching me. I feel eyes on me, or maybe it's just the weight of my own guilt. How many times have I done this? How many times have I let something beautiful slip through my fingers because I was too afraid to stop? Too afraid of what happens when I stand still? I'm haunted by that same question every time I leave, and yet I never seem to have the courage to find out the answer.

I don't belong in a place like Zürich. I don't belong anywhere. I've trained myself to avoid attachment, to slip in and out of people's lives without leaving a mark. But the truth is, the marks are there – they're just invisible. But I feel them every step of the way. I carry them with me, scars that I hide behind movement. Always moving. Moving. Moving.

I walk aimlessly through the city, passing by strangers whose lives seem so solid, so real. There's a couple sitting by a café window, lost in conversation, their hands casually intertwined. I envy them, even though I know I shouldn't. To be rooted in one place, with someone who doesn't disappear the moment you blink, feels like an impossible dream. And yet, there's a part of me – small but persistent – that continue aching for it. A life that isn't defined by the ticking of the clock.