Holy shit, I’m alone.

Okay, okay, let’s not panic.

On the plus side, my tiny São Paulo Airbnb looks a lot bigger once the 3–2=1 formula is applied. It’s also a lot more organized and quieter, because no one is leaving shit around or watching YouTube on TV all the time while someone is trying to work.

Oh, come on, don’t judge. If you live with people—even people you truly love—I’m sure you fantasize about them not being around once in a while.

Shit. I miss their stuff covering every available surface and the background noise already.

Feng and Mark flew back to Canada.

Feng leaves like I leave. It’s a long day, with some time wasted, some silly leaving traditions, a lot of packing, two showers at least, some more time wasted, and a bit of a rush because suddenly it’s time to just get up and go. After debating important issues—shorts and change at the airport or jeans, where is the damn bottle of cleaning alcohol—he had to tell Mark to put his socks on and shut off the tablet half a dozen times, but once they did have their shoes on, they bolted to the door.

I followed with the garbage. I hailed a taxi, Feng said bye, and that was it.

Ah. This is payback for all the times I left my mum and left Feng. Quick and easy, like a Band-Aid. For the one who leaves, anyway—at least at first. The one who stays is a bit stunned for a few minutes. At least, I was.

I stood there on Frei Caneca Avenue for a few seconds, not following their taxi with my eyes—Paulistas are efficient; the driver had left as soon as the doors were shut—but looking for… a destination? A sense of purpose? A new start?

Ah. Just as well. I had made a list for this exact moment.

I pulled my phone out of my bag. Here it was.

“Buy bread and rice.”

Perfect. Easy. Rewarding. Much-needed for tonight’s dinner.

“Pack. Write down flight and Airbnb. Set alarm.”

For the following day, obviously, but there it was, my evening planned.

I needed to keep myself busy.

I’m alone on this southern part of the continent, in a country where no one speaks my languages—plural—and where I speak the language like a five-year-old kid. The very same continent CNN told you not to go to—unless the government mandates you to go steal resources, in which case it’s totally okay.

I’m not here to steal Brazil’s resources, despite my best efforts to drink coffee and eat chocolate and cheese.

I’m alone, but I’m not alone. I have a plan, kind of. And there are 11.9 million people around me—around 22.9 million if you include the Greater São Paulo metropolitan area—and you bet I’m including it tonight. I may as well.

So I’m not alone. I have a family—the one I created and the one that created me. I have friends in Canada, in France, and in various places, and friends I have yet to meet. Most days, I find other human beings kind, fascinating, and helpful. Yes, I’m this kind of person. Definitely not alone—or at least not that alone.

Feng and Mark are on their way to Canada.

I’m on my way to the jungle.

I’d better get packing and set this damn alarm.