181. My stomach knows where home is.

I have so much to say but I'm still digesting it.

There are feelings I don’t understand like coming and going, saying hello and then goodbye, or missing someone. I think the reason I don’t understand them is that I don’t understand how these feelings can physically hurt. How is it possible for my heart to ache inside my chest when I say goodbye to him at the airport? How can my stomach flip when I see someone wearing jeans like his, walking down the street—realizing how much I wish he were here to see me this happy?

My heart beats thousands of times a day, and I never feel it move inside me. But as soon as I give him that last hug and that last kiss, I feel it sting. My stomach, on the other hand, is something I feel more often than my heart. Whenever I see my friends laughing in the middle of Madrid soaked with rain, I feel butterflies. Whenever I’m on my way to meet a friend I love with my whole heart (again, my heart), my stomach feels like a cloud. Whenever I’m eating Chinese food with my friends, talking about which house one of them is going to buy, I feel my stomach whistle.

My stomach usually leads the way. It tells me when to move forward and when to stop. It tells me when it’s time to go and when it’s time to turn around. It tells me when to stare at them a little longer to record the core memory for a few more seconds, with a little more quality. It tells me everything.

And yet, even though I know this—even though I’m used to feeling every variation in my stomach—it still confuses me. Am I nervous or excited? Am I scared or exhilarated? I can never tell the difference. I tell myself that my stomach has no idea, that I’m the one who has to figure it out. But sometimes, the feeling is so intense that everything blurs together. Does my stomach rule my mind, or does my mind rule my stomach?

My poor stomach has been on a rollercoaster these past few days. It all started on my way to catch a flight. I had to go to a different building in the airport, one I’d never been to—my stomach didn’t like that. Then I had to wait at the gate with speedy boarding. It liked that but wasn’t sure we were doing it right. Once we were seated on the plane, everything felt familiar—we’d done this many times before. But the airport bus to Carlota’s house was terrible. There were more people on that bus than in the entire village where I live. My stomach didn’t settle for the whole thirty-minute ride. But then, as soon as I crossed the threshold and was with her, my stomach let go, relaxed—it felt at home.

My stomach knows we’re home here. It knew it the moment we got off the plane. The moment I heard the language that lives in my heart. But I’ll talk more about that another time because I’m still wrapping my head, and my stomach, around it.

Some people make my stomach feel like a balloon being blown up, about to burst. Uneasy. Vigilant about what’s around the corner. Others make it feel like a soft, gentle river. Flowing and calming. And she makes me feel like the second. My stomach probably doesn’t understand how someone I’ve never met in person before can feel like home, but my mind tells me that sometimes, that’s just how it is. Sometimes things don’t make sense, but they feel right. And being here feels exactly right.