I spent 10 days in Paris and it was pure bliss.
Infinite museums and bookshops to browse about, a city that is so beautiful it’s ridiculous and the company of an old friend and a new love.
I couldn't have been happier and more carefree. It was the best time I had in ages and came back feeling lighter and jokingly saying I felt so light because I hadn’t fully returned yet.
Imagine my dread when, a week later, the bloodshed happened.
I stared at my phone with sweaty palms and a heavy heart as news reports got darker and darker by the hour.
I had no words.
I have no words.
I live in a place where terrorism isn’t a major threat. It’s not that I’m indifferent to mindless random violence happening in other countries. But it's a distant reality.
This time was different.
There were people there I call mine.
It was on the streets they walked.
It was on the streets I walked with them.
I went from wanting to read all about the attacks, every tiny detail, because I thought that would help me make sense of it, to feeling so sick about it and getting off the internet completely.
I know the shock will fade away. But my carefreeness took a huge blow this weekend.
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