The first week of being back home was a week of jet-lag and longing. Longing to be back in London, drinking flat whites in Soho, walking through the rain in Shoreditch . . . But once that week was over, I felt different. Something in me had changed, almost completely. As if I’d finally shed the last layer of myself. A layer that held an unromantic melancholy. There were no more rushes of thoughts to wake me up at 2AM, no more sitting in misery, waiting for something better, something more. No matter where I was, or what I was doing, I was finally, truly, completely happy.
To be continued . . .