approaching the end of a chapter

when it begins to end

Whenever I’m in the middle of a particularly engaging novel, I look to see how many pages are left in the chapter I’m on. I avoid spoilers but like to gauge how much I can read at a time, how the plot may change. How much of the story will unfold before this chapter finishes? How much more does this book hold? As I get closer and closer to the end of a given chapter, my eyes move more quickly, the excitement of the break driving me forward. One part of the story will end and let another begin; the divisions are clear and familiar. In real life, it’s rare to find such clarity.

I’m moving to New York. Not immediately, but in a few months. Before my eyes, those months are turning into weeks, and my time in San Francisco is ticking away. There’s so much to be said about why I’m moving, how much I love San Francisco, and how excited I am about my time in New York, but that’s for later, when my things are packed, my flight is booked, and it fully feels real to me. For now, I see the end of this chapter coming, how few pages remain in San Francisco, and using these moments meaningfully feels like the only thing I can think about.

Why is it so hard to recognize the beauty of what we have until its impermanence stares us in the face? In these letters, I’ve tried so hard to hold onto the joy this gorgeous city grants me with the lushness of its parks, the haze of the afternoon sun. In these letters, I’ve sought to immortalize the love granted to me by the people I’ve met here and express the love that I fail to show in real life. In these letters, I’ve hoped to live a life here that I can move on from without feeling too wistful when I finally have to leave.

And as much as I’ve tried, it isn’t enough — nothing ever could be. If only these words could let me live eternally in the electricity of a game of darts with the boys, ensnare me in the dancing crowd at a friend’s DJ set perpetually, keep me in any of the moments that make me forget that darkness exists or ever has. Only then could I move on from this city without tears in my eyes and a dull ache in my chest.

I know the end is coming. I spend my days and nights trying to cling to the city and the people while trying to plan how to move a life across a country. Everything comes into focus so clearly, especially the doubt, the fear of the unknown, the fear of the distance. Who will I even be without my roommates, who shape my days with our routines around football and exercise? What is a life without Mission-style burritos? At times, I can only see my future as a life defined by lack: a body with fundamental organs still in the city by the Bay.

Everything is bittersweet. Every great party or dinner or night out reminds me of what I will soon lose. And even the bad things seem wondrous. A tsunami warning feels like a sign from God that I should leave the city, but I find myself endeared to the lackadaisical attitude the city’s residents seem to take toward it. The air quality is moderate to poor for a week, but it makes the sunsets more striking than ever before, the type that you’d see in a JMW Turner painting.

As this chapter’s end looms over me, I seek to fight my instinct to rush through my time here just to get to the next part, to try and answer all the questions of what the future holds. Let me linger on the last few pages of my time in San Francisco, lose myself between the lines, and hold onto what’s so dear to me here while I can.

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We must do what we can to push back against the genocide in Gaza and the invasion of Lebanon. Consider calling your US representatives to support de-escalation and a ceasefire, donating to Care for Gaza (grassroots organizations delivering food to Palestinians), directly to families or by buying e-SIMs to keep folks connected to their families. Lebanon is suffering too— consider donating to the Lebanese Food Bank, The Zahra Trust, or Beit El Baraka to help provide relief and resources.

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💧 Drops of the Week 💧

• ALBUM - The Machine by WTCHCRFT - some hard techno

• POEM - “Dear Reader” by James Tate - I am trying to pry open your casket / with this burning snowflake.