The Feed

I had a realization while watching a series: empathy is not always a beautiful trait. Sometimes, it is just pain that learned how to recognize itself in other people. We glorify empathetic people without questioning what made them that way in the first place. Because truly understanding someone’s pain usually comes from having survived something similar yourself. Otherwise, it’s sympathy. And maybe that’s why “you won’t understand” hurts so much.

We are in the age of AI. Everything is either already automated or in the process of becoming so. From the smallest things to the largest, life has become simpler and easier. In many ways, that ease has made people lazy. We don’t clean our spaces ourselves anymore. We don’t write, arrange, or sometimes even think fully by ourselves. At one point, the world shown in WALL-E felt uncomfortably close to reality. But that perception has changed. The shift happened slowly, and some

Paris greeted me not with the Eiffel Tower, but with crowded metros and chaotic streets. I felt out of place in my oversized tee among the effortless elegance around me. Yet, in between the rush, you softened me with croissants, whispered grandeur at Petit Palais, and overwhelmed me with Galerie Dior’s magic. Lost, tired, laughing near the Eiffel Tower, I realized Paris was never simple — messy yet magnificent, demanding yet unforgettable.

Milan didn’t welcome me with ease — it poured rain on my arrival, froze me in summer clothes, and left me dragging suitcases through unfamiliar streets. The first week was chaos: missed buses, no lunch, endless lectures, and a city that felt out of reach. Yet in the bitterness, I found sweetness: sunsets on our balcony, laughter with flatmates, and skies I’ll never forget. Milan was my black coffee — harsh at first, but made better by the company I shared it with.

There’s a kind of love that doesn’t grip or hover. It just stays — softly, quietly — like a pinky-hold in a crowded street. Not loud like a hug, not dramatic, but steady. This piece reflects on the beauty of gentle presence — love that doesn’t cling, but still lingers. It exists in siblings, parents, partners, friends — in the small ways they say “I’m here” without words. A soft kind of holding on, in a world that often forgets how.

Milan moves slower than I’m used to — people walk like time is theirs. I’m still adjusting: learning public transport, surviving on vending machine espresso, and watching the sun set way past 8:30 p.m. The sky is clearer, the coffee is better, and strangers are kind without speaking a word I understand. I haven’t explored everything yet, but I’m here — and I’m hoping the city treats me good.

Moving to a new country isn’t just about homesickness or thrill — it’s about the quiet, unspoken feeling of not quite fitting in. Of walking streets that don’t know your name, of smiling through confusion, of waiting for your soul to catch up. This city doesn’t know me yet. And some days, I don’t fully know myself either. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe becoming is supposed to feel like this — unfamiliar, slow, a little bittersweet.

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