Some days, I smile like I mean it.
I reply to emails like they matter.
I microwave leftovers and convince myself it’s a meal.

But inside?

I’m somewhere else.
I’m not here.
I’m in Jamaica.

The Ache for Escape

It’s always triggered by something small. A song. A smell. Someone biting into a patty with too much pleasure.

Today, it was a stranger on the train wearing a shirt that said, “No Problem.”
Two words that cracked something open inside me.

Because I am the problem right now. Or at least I feel like one. Stuck in a loop. Trying to be functional. Trying not to scream into my pillow every time I hear “Let’s hop on a quick call.”

And suddenly I remember…
Jamaica.

Not the version on brochures. The real one. The one that touched me once and never let go.

The Memory That Haunts Me Softly

The last time I was there, I met a woman named Mella in Montego Bay. She braided my hair and told me:

“People come here to escape, but what they find is themselves.”

She was right. I didn’t just leave with souvenirs. I left with clarity.
The sea didn’t judge me. The breeze didn’t rush me.
I felt like me, but lighter.

There was laughter I didn’t force. Food I didn’t rush through. People who looked me in the eye and meant it when they said “You good?”

I remember the sound of waves crashing in Treasure Beach. I remember dancing in the middle of the street in Kingston because someone turned up a speaker and nobody cared. I remember mango juice on my chin and not wiping it off because… who was I trying to impress?

What If I Never Left?

Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I stayed.
If I let the island keep me. If I let peace become permanent instead of seasonal.

I imagine myself walking the shores barefoot every morning, learning how to cook jerk the proper way, talking to strangers like we’d known each other for lifetimes.

Maybe I’d become one of those people who laughs deep from the belly. Maybe I already was, for a moment.

But I’m Here. Pretending.

Pretending like I don’t miss it.
Pretending like the cold concrete under my feet feels anything like that sunlit sand.
Pretending I’m okay with the noise, the rush, the never-pausing pressure.

But the truth is:
I want to be in Jamaica.

I want to feel the sun on my back and not the weight of expectation.
I want to wake up to birds, not alarms.
I want to eat ripe fruit under a tree while someone sings off-key in the distance and it’s the best sound I’ve heard all year.

I want to stop pretending.
But for now, I’ll close my eyes and remember.

Because sometimes, memory is all we have.
And sometimes, it’s just enough to keep the longing alive.