Part 3: Liminality, Almost
A story about movement, memory, and the quiet spaces in between.
Scene 1 – On the flight
She greeted me like time had behaved itself.
“Hey Sam. Long time.”
The tone was calm. Settled. Familiar in a way that felt rehearsed.
I nodded, took a second longer than necessary before answering. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because my body was still deciding how much honesty it could afford in a public place at thirty thousand feet.
“Long time,” I repeated.
We sat like that for a moment, the plane still boarding, people shuffling past us with bags and impatience. She looked… fine. Put together. The kind of fine that usually comes after things have already been processed.
“So,” I asked, glancing sideways, “married?”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Kinda.”
“Kinda?” I let out a small laugh. “So not only did you never come back, you didn’t even feel like inviting me to your wedding.”
She stayed quiet.
Not awkward silence. Chosen silence.
I waited a beat, then looked at her again. “All good? Are you married or not?”
She exhaled slowly, like she’d been expecting this question for years and still didn’t want it.
“Can we not talk about it?”
That was new.
She was never like this.
There were never closed doors with her. No censored topics. No careful detours. We had talked about everything back then. Psycho exes. Moronic teachers. Failures. Rejections. Things that made no sense and things that hurt too much to make sense of.
Nothing was off limits.
And now, sitting next to each other on a flight to a country neither of us belonged to, there were suddenly areas I wasn’t allowed to step into.
She used to talk a lot before.
She used to be vocal. Open. Expressive. Even when she didn’t have answers, she filled the space with questions. With opinions. With noise.
Now she was quiet in a different way. Guarded. Selective.
I didn’t know what had happened to her.
But I could guess.
Life, I figured, hadn’t been particularly kind.
Then again, it’s rarely kind to anyone.
I tried to lighten it. Old reflex.
“You remember that time,” I said, smiling despite myself, “when I crossed the road to borrow a lighter from the auto guy and you thought I’d completely lost it?”
She frowned slightly, searching her memory. Then shook her head.
“Uh… yeah- no. I don’t remember. Sorry.”
That landed harder than it should have.
Not because it was a big moment.
But because it was ours.
And something clicked.
Sometimes friendships don’t end. There’s no fight. No fallout. Just a moment where it stops continuing.
We weren’t the same people anymore.
That friendship wasn’t paused. It was finished. Quietly. Somewhere along the way.
I didn’t know why I’d expected her to just step back into that role. Like time had been waiting patiently for both of us to catch up.
It hadn’t.
She sat there, polite and composed, and I realized I was talking to someone who had already moved on from a version of us I was still carrying.
And suddenly, the calm made sense.
Scene 2 – After landing
We landed without ceremony.
Applause broke out in parts of the cabin, the way it always does, and I still never know who it’s for. The pilot. Gravity. Collective relief.
People stood up too quickly, reaching for bags they wouldn’t be able to take down for another ten minutes anyway.
She unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for her backpack.
For a moment, I thought she might say something. Something like we should catch up properly. Or maybe exchange numbers again, as if we hadn’t once known each other’s lives without needing to ask.
She didn’t.
“So,” she said instead, adjusting the strap on her shoulder, “take care, yeah?”
Take care.
Not let’s talk.
Not don’t disappear.
Just… take care.
I nodded. “Yeah. You too.”
That should have been it.
But I looked at her again. Just a second longer than necessary.
She noticed.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Like the way you’re staring.”
I smiled. “You’ve become prettier.”
Maybe it was just the perks of being almost married.
She smiled back.
That was it.
No comment. No deflection. Just a quiet smile that acknowledged the moment without inviting it to stay.
Then she turned, stepped into the aisle, and disappeared into the slow-moving line of people.
I watched her go.
That was how it had happened back then too, I realized.
Not with an argument.
Not with a goodbye.
Just a point where one person keeps walking and the other assumes there will be time later.
There usually isn’t.
I waited for the line to move, picked up my bag, and followed the crowd out of the plane.
Back to solitude. Back to the solo trip again.
Scene 3 – Outside the airport
After watching her disappear into the aisle, I felt… steady.
Not relieved. Not heavy either. Just settled into that familiar space where you realise you’re fine on your own. Where solitude isn’t punishment, it’s a choice.
Back to solitude. Back to the solo trip again.
Outside, Greece waited.
Light first. Bright and unapologetic.
Then heat. Not aggressive. Just present.
I adjusted my bag and stood there for a moment, completely unhurried.
No rush. No schedule breathing down my neck. Plenty of time.
I spotted a small café nearby and walked in. Ordered a coffee. Sat down. Connected to the free WiFi. Let my shoulders drop for the first time since landing.
The signal was… cooperative. In the fragile way free WiFi usually is. Bars appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again. Still, it was enough.
I finished the coffee, took a few mental notes, and stepped back outside feeling reasonably prepared.
That’s when I decided to try something more human.
I walked up to the nearest person and asked the universal opener.
“English?”
He nodded immediately. Confident. Certain.
Relieved, I explained where I needed to go. Slowly. Clearly. With my hands adding unnecessary emphasis, just in case.
He listened carefully.
Then replied in fluent Greek.
A lot of words. Even more confidence. He pointed left, then right, then somewhere that felt emotionally encouraging but geographically unclear.
I nodded along, equally committed to pretending this exchange was working.
“Gracias,” I said.
I took a few steps. Then stopped.
I had understood absolutely nothing.
At this point, you’re probably wondering how I managed to order coffee at all, let alone get free WiFi, if this was the level of communication I was operating on.
Fair question.
The coffee place didn’t involve talking. It was a kiosk. Touchscreen. Apple Pay. No language required. The WiFi came free with it, along with the kind of signal strength that always reminds you why it’s called free.
And yes, I know gracias is Spanish. But when someone says they know English and then switches to Greek without warning, you work with whatever language your brain grabs first. Don’t judge.
Another person noticed me hovering and stepped in. Another confident nod. Another explanation. Another entirely different direction.
It wasn’t frustrating. Just mildly fascinating.
Everyone wanted to help. No one agreed.
Eventually, someone handed me a physical map.
Paper. Folded. Creased.
I held it for a moment, surprised by how unfamiliar it felt.
Back home, I’d never needed one. Google had always done the thinking. Calm voice. Clear arrows. Occasional emotional instability.
Standing there, unfolding a paper map in a country I couldn’t read, I finally understood why the Google lady sometimes sounds drunk and gives wildly creative directions.
This job is hard.
I folded the map back, thanked everyone again, safely in English this time, and started walking.
Not lost.
Not entirely sure either.
Just moving.
Scene 4 – Tourist plans
Getting there took longer than it should have.
Not because it was far, but because everything in between felt undecided. Turns that looked right until they weren’t. Stops that made sense only after they failed. Directions that sounded confident but kept changing their minds.
Somewhere between walking, pausing, checking the map again, and trusting it less each time, the city slowly stopped arguing with me.
And eventually, without ceremony, I arrived.
The itinerary had looked reasonable.
Acropolis.
Plaka.
Monastiraki.
Glyfada Beach.
Four places. One day.
On paper, it felt efficient. Balanced. Like something I’d planned during a moment of optimism and decent WiFi.
Greece, it turned out, had opinions.
I made it to the Acropolis first.
Not triumphantly. Not impressed. Just tired. Slightly dehydrated. More relieved than anything else.
I stood there longer than planned, not because I was overwhelmed, but because standing still suddenly felt like progress. After airports, flights, conversations that didn’t quite land, and maps that refused to cooperate, staying in one place felt earned.
From there, I drifted into Plaka almost by accident.
Narrow streets. Cafés pretending not to be tourist traps. Corners that looked familiar, even though they weren’t. The kind of place you don’t arrive at deliberately. You just end up there and decide it counts.
I checked the map again, more out of habit than hope.
That’s when it became obvious.
The beach was not happening.
Not today.
Between directions that sounded certain until they weren’t, turns that only made sense in hindsight, and my own belief that I could squeeze one more thing into the day, Glyfada quietly slipped into the future.
Planned four. Managed two.
Thanks to the tremendous directions provided by extremely well-meaning strangers who all seemed very sure of themselves.
I wasn’t annoyed.
Just amused in that specific way you get when you realise the day is no longer interested in being managed.
Somewhere between walking, recalculating, and giving up on recalculating, I stopped trying to fix the plan.
I let the day be uneven. A little inefficient. Slightly off-script.
And that’s when it finally started to feel like mine.
Scene 5 – The hotel
By the time I reached the hotel, I was tired in a way that had nothing to do with walking.
Not exhaustion. Just that slow, dull fatigue that comes from constantly adjusting. New places. New directions. New expectations you didn’t realise you were carrying.
I walked up to the counter and gave my name.
The receptionist smiled first. Apologetically.
There was a pause. A few clicks on the keyboard. Another look at the screen.
Then she said something I didn’t understand.
I leaned in slightly. “Sorry?”
She tried again. Same words. Different rhythm. Still not English.
I pointed at the confirmation on my phone and asked the only useful question left. “Room?”
She nodded. Then shook her head. Then nodded again. Followed by a sentence that sounded explanatory, reassuring, and completely inaccessible.
I caught only two things.
Double booked.
Of course.
I asked how. Not accusing. Just curious. The way you ask when you already know the answer won’t change anything.
She responded at length, smiling politely, hands moving in small, careful gestures. It felt like a full explanation. One I simply wasn’t equipped to receive.
I nodded. Thanked her. For what, I wasn’t entirely sure.
I stepped aside with my bag, the folded map still sticking out like evidence, and waited for irritation to arrive.
It didn’t.
What came instead was acceptance. Quiet. Immediate.
This wasn’t a chapter about arrival.
It was about being here.
I stepped outside again and sat down on my bag. The city moved around me without noticing. Cars passed. People talked. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed for no reason I could hear.
I unfolded the map one more time.
Lines. Names. Arrows that meant nothing yet.
I folded it back carefully, rested my hands on it, and looked up.
Not lost.
Not arrived.
Just… here.
And for now, that felt like enough…
Somewhere between leaving and arriving, I learned how to stay.
Beautiful 😍