who we were the whole time

a quick, early afternoon reflection

Hi friends,

It’s Sunday afternoon. February 4th, at 2:41 PM to be exact.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table. I’ve ordered groceries for the week, and I need to organize them. Fennel, carrots, apples, celery, tomatoes, and cans of tuna are sprawled out in front of me.

I’m kind of obsessed with making tuna salad sandwiches. They remind me of my childhood. My dad would always make them with chopped celery, onion, and a bit of mayo. The closest thing I can find to mayo here is mustard (which, to be honest - probably isn’t even close). So I do celery, onion, tomato, and a drop of mustard instead.

Another snack that reminds me of my childhood is sliced apples with cinnamon, honey and a cup of English Breakfast tea. Which, I have the pleasure of enjoying now, right as I type this out to you.

Can I tell you something? I always laugh at the amount of people who told me that they don’t like Milan, or made a face full of disgust when I said I was going to stay here for a while.

The other day, I watched the burgundy tram with the Gucci logo, that was so elegantly printed on the sides of each car - pull up right in front of Fendi Home. I had just enjoyed my new dirty martini replacement (a Garibaldi - freshly squeezed orange juice + Campari) in the January sun, watching Milanese shoppers enter and exit designer stores. Women in black coats, beautiful bags, big sunglasses, big scarves surrounded me

All of us, with our long red nails, enjoying a late morning spritz.

Home. I said to myself. This is home. Or, rather, one of my versions of home.

Can I tell you something? When I was little, the first job I ever wanted was to be a fashion designer. Which, aptly fit my second email address: “fashion_queen”. I then wanted to be a beauty editor for Lucky Magazine (remember those Yes/No/Maybe stickers? I was obsessed.)

I love fashion, for the reason that it just makes you feel good about yourself. For me, the ritual of shopping and picking out an outfit is just as important as someone else’s morning yoga routine.

Our outfits tell stories. Our outfits are narratives we control.

What am I going to feel good in? What am I going to feel my best in? What story do I want this look to tell?

That silk dress says effortless. The denim and white boots says timeless.

Lately, my story has been a good light-wash jean, an oversized wool or cashmere, my beloved Uggs with the orange stripe, and, of course, a long black coat. We’re comfortable, we’re chic, we’re healing, and we can go anywhere.

We wouldn’t mind attention, but we’re not demanding it.

I haven’t thought about my love for fashion in a while. And I think this is why I love Milan so much. It’s made me remember something that brings me joy. That brings me happiness.

Just like those tuna salad sandwiches. Just like those apples with honey and cinnamon sprinkled on top.

Yesterday afternoon, I finished “Ghosts” by Dolly Alderton. It was incredible. And in liu of a social life, I have decided to buy a Kobo monthly membership for unlimited access to stories and book titles. I forgot how much I loved reading, too.

“Books are friends.” A message from my good friend back home reads. So, my Saturday night was dedicated to a scalp mask and “The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo.” And to be honest, I’m not sure if it needed to be any other way.

And speaking of friends back home, I had an ex message me last week, out of the blue. Our First Muse to be exact. We’ll go through long periods of not talking, but whenever we do speak, it’s like no time has passed.

Sometimes, he’ll send me book recommendations. Sometimes, it’s a response to a newsletter: “This guy sounds like a dick. You should ghost him.” (his reaction to Peter Pan. Lol.)

He had sent me a voice note, which he never has before. And I didn’t tell him this, but it was the sound of his voice that really made me smile. And even though it was only a minute and a half long, there was something about our conversation that I thought about for the rest of the night.

“I’m actually happy you sent me a voice note. Now I can listen to the sound of my own voice.” I tell him.

“Of course. It’s never the sound of my voice you’re excited hearing. But it’s you replaying your own voice note over and over and over again.”

I’m laughing typing this. It’s that understanding, isn’t it?

It’s interesting how new cities and places can make us rediscover, and even reignite old parts of ourselves.

I left Rome, thinking what story Milan was going to tell. What story Milan was going to tell me, and what story I would tell everyone else.

And I know, I could go on and on and on about the different meanings of home. Of what it all means, or what we think it should all mean.

But as I’m sitting here, watching the sun now set out of my friend’s Milanese apartment. What I know is this.

Each city. Each country. Each experience. It’s happening for us. Those layers and different parts to ourselves. We find them and we rediscover them when we’re out there living.

When we’re crying in the bathroom stalls of our favourite bars. Love.

When our friends pour wine into our glasses after ordering a plate of spaghetti pomodoro for you, because you’re not confident in your Italian just yet. Comfort.

When we take the train, one massive suitcase in tow, all on our own - just to sleep in a different city for a month or two. Independence.

Finding and claiming that new corner spot in a cafe. Routine.

Rediscovering an old love, and feeling comforted by the ones who never left. Nostalgia. But the good kind (as our friend, PN, would say).

Remember What Isn’t Ours? It’s a search for that feeling.

And you know what else I realized? That feeling. It follows us everywhere. It follows us around everywhere.

Those angels in the form of strangers. We never stop finding them, do we? Or maybe they never stop finding us.

It’s always been ours. It’s always been ours.

I love you,

Emily