After two years, London was beneath me in shades of brown and grey.
The flight from Paris was short but it felt like an eternity. My head was swirling, retracing steps, memories and moments from the last two years since I’d been in England.
I wasn’t sure if I could recover from all the beautiful sights I’d seen, the men I’d loved, the friends I’d shared my new life with and the dreams I’d watched come true.
Over and over, watching re-runs of my former life on loop.
“Ladies and gentleman, welcome to London. We hope you enjoy your stay and wish you a pleasant onward journey”
Landing. Immigration. Baggage Reclaim. Nothing to Declare.
Actually I had a lot to declare. I wanted to throw my bag down and scream or maybe roll around the floor a little or just cry.
My heart was racing with every step closer to breathing my first breath of air outside the terminal.
The weight of my backpack was never harder to bear.
Two years of the world and back.
I desperately wanted to see my mum and dad but I knew it would make me cry. Not the happy reunion tears from the movies but tears of despair that only really flow freely when you’re being held by someone you love more than life. The unreserved horror of the ‘what the hell am I going to do now?’ tears.
They were waiting. I cried. We ate airport cake while I composed myself.
The drive home began.