The Weight of Being Me

Paris isn't what I expected.

It's louder, faster, lonelier.

The lights don't feel magical at first.

They feel like spotlights, exposing everything I'm not.

I rent a small studio apartment with creaky floors and a window view of rooftops and sky. It smells like old books and burnt coffee.

I love it immediately.

---

The writing fellowship gives us deadlines, prompts, and solitude.

They want poems, essays, and journal entries. But mostly, they want presence.

The first prompt is titled:

*"Who are you when no one is clapping?"*

---

I sit at my desk for hours that night.

Not writing.

Just thinking.

Because in Nigeria, I was Ayanna the winner, the survivor, the girl who made it.

But here?

I'm just Ayanna.

And that, somehow, is scarier.

---

I start writing again in fragments.

*Lines like:*

*The city doesn't speak my language,

but it hums in my bones.*

*I carry home in my throat,

soft, heavy, and untranslatable.*

---

Two weeks in, I get a message from Tari.

A voice note.

"Just finished a choreography called *Six Hours Ahead.* It's about you. About how time zones stretch love. Miss you."

I play it twice.

Then cry.

Because I miss him too.

More than I thought I would.

More than I want to admit.

---

Every Friday, we have readings at the residency. Poets from around the world share their work.

One night, I read a piece about my mother—her silence, her strength, her survival.

Afterward, a woman from Brazil hugs me and says, "Thank you. I forgot I was allowed to speak about my mother too."

And I remember:

*That's why I'm here.*

Not just to be heard.

But to remind others that they can speak too.

---

His name is Eli.

A poet from South Africa.

Quiet eyes. Sharp tongue.

The kind of person who listens like the world might disappear if he blinks too long.

We meet during a peer review session.

He reads my latest piece—something raw about my father's absence—and says, "You don't flinch when you bleed. That's rare."

I laugh. "I used to. Now I just bleed in rhyme."

---

We start spending time together.

Not romantically—at least not at first.

Just two people orbiting pain, turning it into pages.

We talk about distance. About home. About what it means to belong nowhere and everywhere at once.

Sometimes, he reads Neruda in a whisper.

Sometimes, I let him.

---

One night, after a group dinner, he walks me home through rain.

We stop under a broken streetlamp. Everything is gold and wet and cinematic.

He says, "You don't talk about him much."

"Tari?"

He nods.

"He's… my peace," I say. "But peace feels far away here."

He studies me. "You ever wonder if you were meant to love two people differently? One that heals you. One that reflects you."

I look away. "Sometimes. But love isn't always about mirrors."

"Sometimes it is," he says softly.

---

Inside my apartment, I stare at the ceiling.

My chest heavy.

I don't love Eli.

But I see myself in him.

The parts still jagged.

Still unfinished.

And for a second, I wonder what it would feel like to kiss someone who understands the poem before I even read it.

But I don't.

Because love isn't always about being understood.

Sometimes it's about choosing someone again.

And again.

Even from six hours ahead.

---

*Excerpt from Ayanna's journal:*

*I am drawn to those who carry sadness like a second skin.

But I don't want to live in sorrow anymore.

I want love that dances.

Even in the dark.*

---