As I stood there, my hands resting lightly on the glass counter, I could feel my pulse in my fingertips. The man’s voice cut through the store like a blade—sharp, absolute. His wife’s eyes darted between the necklace she wanted and the one he insisted on, her lips pressed into a thin, helpless line. I wanted to speak. Not as a saleswoman, but as a woman. To tell her that her desires mattered, that she wasn’t unreasonable for wanting something of her own.

I always thought I was a good father. I worked hard, provided for my sons, and made sure they grew up disciplined, like my own father raised me. But now, at 54, with my body failing me, I see the cracks in what I believed was strength. Alex was different from the start. He was quieter than his brother, moved with a grace I didn’t understand. He was thinner, his voice softer. I told myself it was just a phase, but deep down, I knew. And I hated that I knew.

I sit in the back row, where I can blend in but still see everything. The professor's voice fills the lecture hall, explaining the intricacies of the cardiovascular system, but my mind drifts. Not out of boredom—I love medicine—but because I keep wondering if I truly belong here. Most of my classmates don’t have to think about that. They grew up in families where doctors were just another part of life, where success was an expectation, not something they had to wrestle for.

At night, when the house is quiet, I sit by my desk with a sketchbook and a pencil. The city outside is never really dark—neon signs flicker, and the hum of Taipei, Taiwan, never stops. But in my room, with the door shut, it's my world. I draw everything—faces, animals, strange creatures that don’t exist anywhere but in my head. If I could, I would draw all day. But my father has other plans.

When the first rays of sunlight break through the dense canopy, the forest hums with life. This is my favorite time, just before the world wakes. I sling my binoculars around my neck and step outside, greeted by the humid, earthy scent of the Daintree Rainforest, Australia. The laughter of kookaburras echoes through the trees, their calls bouncing like playful taunts. “Good morning to you too,” I mutter, smiling.

I’m thirty-eight, and I’ve spent my whole life on the edge of disaster. That’s just how it is here in Vanuatu—storms, quakes, and the sea always remind you how fragile everything is. The land gives us life, but it also takes it back whenever it wants. Still, leaving has never felt like an option.

When I was five, I pressed my fingers on the keys of an old upright piano in our living room. The sound was uneven and slightly out of tune, but to me, it was magical. My mam says I banged out the same four notes a hundred times that day, and when my dad came home, I played them for him like they were a masterpiece. He cried. Back then, I didn’t understand why.

It rains again today, not that I expected anything different. The tin roof above me hums with the steady drumming of droplets, a sound as familiar as the rhythm of my own breath. I look out over the jagged coastline, the waves churning far below like restless ghosts. This island, Tristan da Cunha, has been my world for eighty-one years. It has shaped me, weathered me, much like the rocks it surrounds—sharp and unyielding, but steadfast.

The first snow came quietly during the night. When I pulled back the curtains, the street outside was draped in white, muffling the usual city sounds. It was beautiful, but I felt nothing. I made coffee, out of habit more than desire, and sat by the window. My phone buzzed with messages from colleagues, friends, my sister. I ignored them all. Even Mom’s “Good morning, älskling,” went unanswered.

Yesterday I turned 21 years old. In Mississippi, USA, that means I’m officially an adult in every possible way, which feels both significant and hilariously absurd. The world hasn’t shifted, but I’ve been told it’s mine now, for better or worse. First thing I did was walk into a liquor store, just because I could. I didn’t even buy anything; I just wandered the aisles, looking at the labels like they held some kind of wisdom.

When I hear laughter echoing from the park outside my window here in Zagreb, Croatia, it pulls me back to the classroom. The sound is thinner now, softer, without the sharp edges of chairs scraping floors or the occasional chaos of thirty children with too much energy. But it stirs something in me.

The air tasted of salt and gasoline as I stepped onto the pier, the heartbeat of Hong Kong thrumming in the background. The city was waking up, though I never really went to sleep. Nights like mine blurred into mornings—another deal, another envelope stuffed with cash, another favor called in. That’s life in the shadows, where every handshake comes with a blade pressed to your ribs.

I biked home along the empty streets of Østerbro in Copenhagen, Denmark, the late winter air biting at my cheeks. The government’s announcement echoed in my mind like the bell of the town hall clock. Compulsory military service—for everyone. Eleven months in uniform, wielding a rifle, learning to fight. And not because we’re at war, but to prevent one.

I shuffle into the market as the sky starts to glow a faint orange, the kind of dawn that promises no warmth. My reindeer fur jacket creaks with every step; the frost has stiffened it overnight. Around me, Yakutsk, Russia, begins its daily ritual, a city alive even in the most brutal cold. Exhaust fumes linger in the air, swirling around bundled-up pedestrians like restless spirits.

The wind in Iten, Kenia, has a way of speaking to runners. It brushes against your face, tugs at your clothes, and dares you to go faster. I remember standing at the edge of the school track, staring down the lanes like they were pathways to something bigger. I was only eight when my sports teacher first noticed me sprinting barefoot across the fields of our small village.

Walking through the crowded streets of São Paulo, Brazil, I often feel the weight of stories buried beneath the concrete. This city is a living mosaic of histories—some told, many forgotten. I used to think my own story was straightforward, just another blend of Brazil’s countless cultures. That was before I learned who my father was.

I watched Sana wrap her new headscarf neatly in front of the bathroom mirror at school today. It was light pink, matching the soft blush on her cheeks. She smiled when she caught me looking, but I could tell it wasn't a full smile. Not the kind she used to have when we chased each other during recess. I wonder if she feels different now—if she feels older or heavier.

The wind was particularly sharp that morning, cutting through the narrow streets of Punta Arenas, Chile, like a blade. I pulled my scarf tighter and watched the waves batter the shoreline. The Strait of Magellan has always had a way of reminding us who's in charge.

Last week, something happened that’s been stuck in my mind. I’m from Rome, Italy, born and raised, and last week in my systems architecture class, our professor surprised us with a group assignment—design a basic CPU scheduler simulation. Groups formed instantly, the usual clusters of guys gravitating toward each other. I lingered for a moment, then quietly joined a group of three who barely noticed me beyond a polite nod.

I watched the rain snake along the cobblestones of Calle de las Huertas, the city breathing under a grey sky. Madrid, Spain, had been my home for five years, yet some days it still felt like I hadn’t quite earned my place here. The streets hummed with life, but I moved through them like a ghost, unnoticed, blending into the rhythm of the city.