Milano – London – Berlin

I’m Moving, Even If I Don’t Know Where

I am leaving Milano

I know, I know.
I’m already crying about it. And yes, I’m sad.

But it’s not a goodbye.
It doesn’t feel like one.
It’s more like a shift — something temporary, something that needs to happen.

I’m moving out in April.
No plan. No clear next step.

And honestly, that scares me a bit.
But it also feels right.

I realised that comfort started to feel… tight.
Like I was doing well, but inside I was already leaning forward, wanting more space. Wanting movement. Wanting to not know for a while.

I’ve seen it before — the best things in my life never came from planning. They came when I jumped a little too early, when I trusted something I couldn’t explain yet.

So I’m doing that again.
Putting myself in the hands of the universe.
Not dramatically. Just honestly.

After this past year — probably the most busy, intense, exciting year of my life — I noticed something about myself:
I want to be freer than I already am.

Almost like once you taste it, you can’t go back.

I want to push myself more.
Let go of control more.
Stop holding everything so tightly.

Writing, when everything gets loud

I really missed writing.
Not in a romantic way — in a physical way.

Writing is where things slow down for me.
Where I stop performing my life and start listening to it.

I wrote in Milano, after the last dinner before the flight.
I wrote at the airport, half tired, half emotional.
I wrote in London, between days that were fuller than I expected.
And now I’m here in Berlin, trying to make sense of all these pieces.

It’s messy. But it feels honest.

I finally got a new keyboard too.
That took longer than it should have — wrong one, returns, waiting.
This one is white, with green buttons.

It feels lighter.
More playful.
Like I don’t need to take myself so seriously anymore.

Milano, and the version of me that lives there

I think I panicked a bit about leaving Milano.
Which is funny, because I know I’m not really leaving.

Milano is home now.
It sits somewhere deep, quietly.

Still, with this decision, the city feels different.
Sharper. More emotional. Like when you know something is changing and suddenly everything matters more.

I’m trying to breathe it in.
To notice details.
To not rush through it.

I haven’t been to university in months. But I passed by Bovisa Politecnico recently, and it hit me unexpectedly.
I remembered myself two years ago — stepping onto those stairs, so excited, so full of expectation.

I miss that version of me sometimes.
But I’m also grateful she existed. She brought me here.

Milano holds that part of my life where I learned how to stand on my own.
How to work hard.
How to be intense without apologizing for it.

Milanese live intensely.
They dress well, talk a lot, eat slowly, feel deeply.
Life is not something to rush through here — it’s something to enjoy properly.

Days together, nights observing

My girlfriend flew to Milano, and we had days that were full in every way — work, meetings, dinners, events.
Busy, but good.

I’m experiencing Milano almost like a tourist now.
But a tourist who knows the shortcuts. Who knows when the city is kind, and when it’s tired.

Our last night, we went for Chinese food.
No big reason — just wanting something different.
And honestly, Chinatown in Milano never disappoints.

After dinner, with a café lungo in my hand, I stood outside and watched people pass by.
I always do that.
It grounds me.

I like seeing how people move through their lives.
It reminds me that everyone is carrying something.

London, and the part of me that dreams

Then London.

I hadn’t been there in almost eight years. Life got busy. Brexit happened. Time passed without asking.

I didn’t know what to expect, but I was excited.

Our flight was delayed, which somehow felt fitting. More time to write. More time to sit with the feeling.

When we arrived, everything came back instantly.
The accent.
The red buses.
The underground signs.

London does something to my imagination.
It slows me down mentally, but at the same time it opens things up.
It makes me want to observe more, to listen more, to write things down before they disappear.

As a reader, I’ve always loved it for that. It makes me feel like a writer, even when I’m not writing. Like life could become a story at any moment.

The days there were full — people, events, pubs, late nights, early mornings.
It felt alive.
Layered.
Like there’s always something happening just outside your field of vision.

So without overthinking, I decided to let London back into my life.
I’ll travel there more.
Maybe even live there for a while.

Right now, I work project-based. Freelance.
It’s unstable sometimes, yes.
But it gives me the one thing I need the most: freedom.

And I’ve learned that I function best that way.

Berlin, where nothing pretends

And now Berlin.

Cold, as always.
But honest.

Berlin doesn’t try to impress you.
It doesn’t smooth things out.
It lets you arrive exactly as you are — tired, confused, excited, heavy — and somehow that’s enough.

This city feels like letting go.
Like not explaining yourself.
Like dancing things out instead of talking them through.

There’s something deeply comforting about that.
About being in a place where difference is normal and intensity isn’t questioned.

Berlin holds space for the parts of me that don’t fit neatly anywhere else.
The messy ones.
The loud ones.
The ones still figuring things out.

Somewhere in between

Each city pulls something different out of me.

Milano grounds me.
London expands me.
Berlin releases me.

And I think right now, I need all three.

2025 was the best year.
Not because it was easy — but because it was full.

I have no big expectations for 2026.
Just movement. Curiosity. Trust.

More travel.
More feeling.
More writing.

I’m in Berlin now.
Smiling for no real reason.

I feel rich.
Not in answers — but in experiences.

And for now, that’s enough.