I left Miami for New York today. It’s a trip I’ve made more than half a dozen times in the past year, but this time, I booked a one-way ticket.

I didn’t think leaving would feel like this. I never wanted to move to Miami in the first place, and I hated my first six months here: lonely, unbearably hot, humid, and unrelenting. Moving to Miami broke something open in me. Maybe it was the catalyst that ended a five-year relationship that I thought was going to be my forever. Or maybe it was simply just time, running itself dry even when everything still looks fine on paper.

And yet, today, as I watched the movers glide through my apartment with almost surgical efficiency, I felt a pang I didn’t expect. A deep longing for what was, and what will never be. Like a life cut short mid-sentence.

A few hours later, I stood in that same apartment, now completely bare. Six months ago, it had felt like a symbol of reinvention — a space I had built, designed, and curated for singlehood, for starting over. Now it was just me, my dog, two suitcases, and an unopened bottle of Asahi. I cracked it open at 1pm, in spite of six meetings ahead of me. Part pragmatism — I needed to clear out the fridge. The rest, symbolic. Leaving deserves a toast, after all.

Knowing today was imminent, I’d spent the past few weeks saying my goodbyes in small, deliberate ways. I played poker at the Hard Rock almost every week, simply because I knew New York didn’t have a casino, at least not yet. I finished a DJ course under Space’s first resident DJ. I watched Messi play, maybe for the last season of his career. I ate maduros and vaca frita as one of my final meals. And one night, I smoked hookah on Miami Beach while listening to live merengue with an old flame, the ocean breeze threading through my hair.

Still, today, as I stood in line at the airport, the tears came. The kind that roll down your cheek slowly, like something out of a film. As I wiped them away to make polite conversation with the unaware stranger standing behind me, I couldn’t tell if the tears came from sadness or from the quiet panic of everything this day held.

After moving around so much, I’ve learned that calling any place home is a privilege. It’s not that Miami ever made me feel especially welcome. The Asian food is terrible. I’m fairly certain there are only three Singaporeans in the entire city, all of whom I’ve met and befriended. In other words, Miami didn’t claim me, I claimed her.

I claimed her by becoming a Heat fan for a hot minute… that is, until Jimmy Buckets left for the Warriors. I learned to make ropa vieja from scratch, a version that not only lived up to, but surpassed, the standards of my ex’s Cuban family. And I taught myself Spanish, day by day, until hola, qué tal? became the first thing I said to someone each morning.

I’ve always believed that privilege is something you earn, and then something you spend the rest of your life being grateful for. How lucky am I to have literally immersed myself in a culture so different from my own; to have learned its humor, its rhythm, its irregardless — even if it never quite got me back. How fortunate am I to have formed new friendships in a new city, no matter how fleeting. How blessed I’ve been to have called its sunshine and showiness mine, even for a little while.

I am excited for New York. She was the second home I ever claimed after my birthplace, right after Cambridge in the UK. It feels full circle to return nearly fifteen years later. Waiting for me are familiar faces, echoes of what once was, corners still waiting to be discovered; and very likely, new neighborhoods still waiting to be named.

I can’t wait to move into my new apartment too. I chose her precisely because she’s nothing like Miami. No doorman, no top-of-the-line amenities, and almost certainly not enough closet space. Instead, she offers a private backyard for something zen, and an uncharacteristic basement waiting to become my degen den.

Home isn’t a place you find, but one you keep choosing. Today, I’ve chosen New York again. If you’re here, come find me. I’ll be the one with a black dog and a pocket full of dreams — looking for chips to shove, decks to spin on, and a new friend.

And to Miami: thank you, truly, for everything. Hoy es un adiós, pero no el final.

P.S. Apologies for the double email today; meant to unhide an old (and my first!) piece, and it ended up getting resent to everyone 🤦🏻‍♀️