Last night, I sat with my flatmates in the hallway for the last time, our fingers interlocked and held above our heads under the dim light. We microwaved ice cream until it turned into soup and we baked two pizzas and we packed our bags and we made promises and plans. Then we woke up at 6:45 the next morning to see the first ones off. That will be me, tomorrow. Tonight, the sun will start to set at 2pm, like it always does, and I will have seen the Scottish sun for the last time, and when it rises tomorrow, I’ll be over an ocean. This is my final chance to say goodnight.
So goodnight, Edinburgh. Goodnight to Arthur’s Seat, especially when it peaks through the buildings. Goodnight to the puddles with reflections of medieval buildings. Goodnight Lidl, goodnight 29p donuts, and goodnight to the Polish bakery and Bernardo’s Used Books and bus stop crowds I had to slink past to get to class. Goodnight Board Games Society, and goodnight Harkus and Rachel; you won’t read this but I half-believe you’ll get married someday. Goodnight cobblestones and painted doors and yellow lights in top-floor apartments.
Goodnight to the Western Isles—I’ve missed you since I left and I hope I’ll come back to visit when I have the means to rent a car and a patch of time in some summer. Goodnight to foggy windows and warm cafes. Goodbye to Scottish accents—I feared, when I came, I wouldn’t understand you, but I’ve come to love you. Goodnight to all the Indian restaurants in Edinburgh (that’s a lot of goodnights,) and goodnight to the empty ones that I always planned to visit, but never did, and now I can’t. Goodnight to Buccleuch Place and goodnight, Tom and Jim, and goodnight to The Meadows—I only passed through you at night, (when the stabbings occurred…) but I always passed through with great friends.
Goodnight Hermit’s Croft. Goodnight Marika and goodnight Midori and goodnight Jill and goodnight Nuria. Goodnight kitchen talks late at night and breakfast tea and overflowing trashcans and dinner experiments. Goodnight frozen broccoli and olive oil and “do you think I should put this on the stove or on the grill?” Goodnight to closing the kitchen windows and turning up the heat over and over and lying across our chairs and worrying if something is burning. Goodnight to late nights scream-singing Jar of Hearts together and goodnight to that nervous feeling we all felt, coming together as strangers from different corners of the world. That feeling disappeared so seamlessly and we replaced it with insane stories and nightly gatherings and a lot of laughter.
I love you.
I haven’t left yet, and I miss you.