Dear London,

This month marks ten years since I was first embraced in your arms. Sometimes, it still feels unreal to me that The Universe was kind enough to carve for me memorable, unrepeatable, cherished six weeks in which I could be myself and enjoy myself. You would've thought that being apart for ten years would make it much easier for me to cope with the loss of you. But, it hasn't.

Well, perhaps, I worded it wrong.

I haven't lost you, a city that will always be there with your cobblestoned alleyways, hidden mini parks, tiny colourful shops, £1.5 Hyde Park ice cream, pubs that offer Indian lunch specials, unpredictable weather, kind strangers, bookstores in every corner, and your witty affinity to embrace my geeky, nerdy side. You will always be there. But the circumstances in which I was ceremoniously plucked from my home country to your open, albeit cold, arms could never and won't ever be repeated.

Though, after going through everything that I have during the past decade, I'm not quite sure if I want to have myself a second helping of what I experienced with you back then. What made everything special was that throughout the course of my life, those memorable, unrepeated, cherished six weeks only happened once. Once. Unparalleled, pivotal. Retrospectively thankfully only once—when I was still acceptably young enough to enjoy my youth, carry out being my geeky nerdy self, and intensely feel everything everywhere all at once, while at the same time I was also old enough to understand that realising dreams would require more than blood, sweat, and tears.

However, it does not mean that I do not want to be embraced by you again. We would be epic, don't you think? I would no longer be this wide-eyed inexperienced little kid that took everything in with misleading view of you. I would have the knowledge of what I want out of you, what kind of adventures that I'd like to partake in, and what kind of ideals that I straight up refuse to compromise.

I suppose, the reason why I'm rambling is because I no longer find myself needing the comfort and niche security that you (or your pretty little old neighbour across the sea) could provide. The kind easiness and warmth that both you and your neighbour offer no longer have their grip on me. Perhaps, I never had them, not really. It was a delusional belief that I had towards inanimate object's inability to hurt, betray, or lie to me.

Even though it took me a decade to unlearn everything that I thought I knew when I came to you, I'm thankful that I have come this far; trusting another human being more than I ever thought I could, believing that fate and reality would be kind enough not to let me fall, and loving someone more than I thought was possible. Speaking of, I think you'd like him. There are traces of you in him even though he has never been welcomed by you at all, it seems as though he inherited your necessary kindness and softness that I thought was impossible to exist in a human being. His warmth, however, is capable to provide me with a much safer cocoon and sanctuary that you ever could. His genuine interest in me, by allowing and amping me up to be the most geekiest nerdiest self, feels a lot like yours, too. Not unlike with you, my chance encounter with him feels like how fate, Universe, and belief collide to specifically and especially carve in time-space.

So, again I suppose, the next time we meet each other, you'll observe that I'm a different person than who I was when I ran into you to seek safety and comfort. You wouldn't find me coming to you for shelter. Instead, I will come with a better set of eyes, admiring you for who you are, not what you can provide for me. I will be soaking in everything, acknowledging your faults and flaws and your inability to be anything more than you already are. And you will be happy to know that my loneliness won't be the one accompanying me to you.

All my undying love,
The one who was gratefully loved by you for six weeks.