I cry, unsurprisingly, on my way to the airport. Not a lot — a silent, well-behaved stream of tears. Don’t even need to close my eyes. I sit on the passenger seat of the shuttle, the back already occupied by a German family and two Australian backpackers in Santa hats. The driver turns down the radio and offers me tissues. I try thanking him, but my voice doesn’t come out quite right.

The sunset is criminally beautiful, like they all are when you leave a place you love for another you love just as much. Tiny planes fly overhead, disappearing into soft pink clouds. Soon it’ll be me up there, ten kilometers from the ground, five thousand from my destination. My heart beats a little faster, anxious and eager.

I figure I should text him before the world becomes unreachable. Thank you for last night, it was lovely and I’m sorry for dragging you into all this back and forth. I’ll miss you, he says, don’t be sorry, it’s not your choice. It feels like it, I think to myself, but by the time the shuttle reaches JFK my eyes are already dry.

It’s ninety minutes before the flight. I’m usually cautious, terrified of missing the plane. Today I held back the shuttle because I didn’t want to leave his arms. He planted countless little kisses across my face, and when kissing him back started hurting, I pressed my face hard against his chest. The possibility of racing down Terminal 2 shoes in hand seemed like a small price to pay. But it’s not the case — security’s short, the walkways almost deserted, and within twenty minutes I’m sitting by the gate next to a couple dozen compatriots.

The first words I hear in my native language are full of sharp corners and smooth slides, like rock salt on steak and sugarcane juice at the beach. I smile at the exhausted strangers whose faces feel so familiar, accents so welcoming. I welcome them back, more grateful than I can express in words.

The air is hot and damp when I land. Like you’re in a stew, everyone says. I’m giddy and dazed, holding my dog in my arms as he licks my neck and ears. My brother takes hold of my shoulder with one arm, my suitcase with another. My parents are happy and the city is bright.

I sigh the entire car ride, content just to admire the ancient trees, winding streets, patchwork asphalt and paving stones. Parallelepipeds, we call them. The ghost syllables dance in my tongue, unsaid but adored. When we get to the house, the turning gears of the electric gates sing a heavy lullaby I’ve almost forgotten. They are huge, and clunky, and monstrously beautiful.

We eat lunch by the patio, overlooking the full garden my mom tends to with such care. I tell them the trivial air travel stories they all know, and listen to talk of politics and economics that are now beyond my grasp. They all feel how slow my speech is, how I pause to remember words, how my sentences are structured in English more often than Portuguese. I can’t decide whether it hurts more when they point it out in amusement, or when they pretend not to notice for my sake.

Afterwards, we take the suitcase upstairs so I can shower and rest. Stepping into my room is like breaching a time capsule — the purple walls, always a little too pink for my taste; the fuzzy blanket left there since August, now comically unnecessary; the stuffed animals mom won’t part with because they’re “nice details,” she says. They make the room look alive.

I’m tired, but can’t sleep. Can’t really bring myself to lie down — don’t want to mess up the bedding. Instead I sit on the chair, staring at the ceiling, thinking.

I call him on Skype. He picks up fast, smiling in that dorky, lovely way, like he means it. We catch up on the last eighteen hours. How’s home? Well, it’s uh, not New York. But it’s good. He wants to see the room. I point the phone around, narrating things that matter and things that don’t. He’s amused by it all, or fakes well enough.

I wonder what it would be like, to bring him here one day — to guide him down to the river and around the parks, places I’ve once pictured myself falling in love. Lying together against a carpet of lavender ipê flowers on the grass. Strolling along the bars on a brisk April evening and stealing a sudden, lazy kiss. He wouldn’t understand or speak a word, but would look just as lovely.

At some point I sit on the bed and look up again. I notice the blades of the fan are caked with a layer of dust, unbelievably thick. It’s the most lifeless thing I’ve ever seen. I open my mouth but don’t say anything, and he notices.

Are you alright?

I inhale sharply. It’s a hotel room, I explain. I don’t know, it’s so static. It’s not mine anymore.

He stares at me, blue eyes deep with a confused kind of concern.

I rub my forehead harshly. It’s never going to be the same, anywhere. For the rest of my life.

That’s not true, he says, but he doesn’t know. The farthest he’s been is California.

I cry, surprisingly, in the comfort of my childhood bedroom. This time the tears are pathetic, pointed sobs. He says things I appreciate on a rational level, but it changes nothing.

My dog scratches at the door, and with a sniffle I let him in. When I sit back on the bed, he leaps onto it too, and starts licking my face where the tears run. I wrap my arms around him and rub his head the way he likes it. The silver patch in his goatee has gotten lighter and wider, but the warmth in those little eyes hasn’t faded. My breathing slows down gradually, and I start feeling how tired I am.

On the other side of the world, my boyfriend says it’s a good thing I have someone to take care of me in his stead. It gets a chuckle out of me. I want to keep crying, but in a different way. My skin tingles and I close my eyes, remembering the way he feels, lips against my neck, hair between my fingers, hands along my thighs.

I yawn. I should go take that nap, I tell him.

Talk to you soon, he says.

Can’t wait for you to be home.