The lasts are stacking up now.
The last bagel and caramel latte at Ambient Café. The quiet hum of conversation that’s always felt like white noise to my thoughts. I took my time, but still—it ended too fast. I stared at the foam, thinking how many times I’d sat there, writing, marking essays, reading, or editing photos.
The last watermelon juice at Le Petit Café.
The last time I’ll slide postcards through the red slot of the Thimphu Post Office letterbox. I always loved that small ritual—the flick of the wrist, the thunk of paper falling inside.
The last bus pickup from the stadium. I memorized the way the mountains rise like old souls behind the buildings.
And now, tonight—tightening the suitcases. Zippers pulling shut on a year. Fitting a life into shapes that roll. Packing feels like erasing. Like folding a chapter closed, knowing you can never unfold it exactly the same again.
I leave in the middle of the night. Quiet. The city won’t notice. That’s okay. It gave me what I needed. A year to be still. A year to be quiet. A year to be with myself. A year to write.
I’m closing out a season of solitude. I didn’t know I needed it this badly until I was in it.
But it’s time now.
Time to move forward.
Time to carry the hush of this place with me, to Kathmandu.
july25
Thimphu, Bhutan 🇧🇹