Moon River

I never thought leaving Sweden would feel this way. I had imagined a dramatic departure, one last walk through the cobbled streets of the city, a final sip of coffee at my favorite café, perhaps even a melancholic glance at the trams rolling by, their bells ringing like a quiet farewell. 

Sweden was never meant to be forever, but it became a part of me in ways I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just the crisp morning air or the long summer nights that blurred into dawn. It was the silence that spoke volumes, the unspoken understanding among strangers, the way the city felt both vast and intimate at the same time. It was in the simple things, the weight of a reusable bag filled with freshly baked bread, the rhythm of footsteps on icy sidewalks, the quiet hum of life on a tram ride home.

And then there were the people. The friends who started as study group partners, colleagues, or even just fellow passengers on the same journey, and somehow became family. I think about the fika breaks that stretched longer than they should have, the deep conversations in candlelit corners, and the laughter that bounced off the walls. I wonder if they know how much they meant to me, if they ever will.

Leaving isn’t just about packing suitcases or handing over apartment keys. It’s about accepting that some parts of me will always remain here, embedded in the city like footprints in fresh snow. It’s about realizing that no matter where I go next, there will be moments when I’ll hear Swedish in a crowded place and turn my head instinctively, as if a part of me still belongs.

Maybe I’ll return one day, maybe I won’t. But Sweden will never truly leave me. And that, I think, is the hardest goodbye of all.