I’ve been in New York for about 6 months now.
I came here heart-broken, confused, lost, and lonely.
I questioned my move.
I was unsure if I ran away for the right reasons.
I probably didn’t.
I spent countless hours on the phone with friends from back home just to feel less lonely.
It didn’t work.
I cried night after night after night.
I went on dates.
Sometimes I even invited them into my bed, thinking that would make me feel better.
And then something happened.
I’m not really sure when.
I couldn’t pin point it even if you had a gun to my head.
All I can say is it was some time in the last few weeks,
I felt like I was where I was supposed to be.
I feel like I am where I am supposed to be.
For the first time in years, I feel like I might actually be on the path to getting what I want.
I feel great.
I feel elated.
But I always feel scared.
There is that nagging little voice in the back of my head,
“This won’t last,” it whispers.
I’m afraid that this perfection is only transient.
Maybe I’m just in a manic moment.
Will I wake up tomorrow and have it be gone?
“Please don’t go,” I pray every night before bed.
“Please don’t go.”