THE FIRST STEP

I wasn't prepared at all.

Not in the slightest. My heart pounded like a wild drum, my thoughts racing in an endless loop of doubt and fear. But I knew that if I didn't take that first step, I would forever be trapped in the small, suffocating black dot on the map that I called my town, a place that felt more like a cage than a home.

But it wasn't even really my town. I wasn't born there. The place where I was born is a stranger to me, a distant, hazy memory wrapped in the fog of time, just like my parents. I wouldn't know anything about them if it weren't written in my documents. I can't say their names without feeling a hollow emptiness. They're just words without meaning, names that echo in the void, devoid of warmth or connection.

Fear wrapped itself around me like the thick, impenetrable cloak of night, hiding me from view and shielding me from the prying eyes of others. I could feel their gazes, heavy and piercing, laden with pity, judgment, and reproach. Even the eyes of those dear to me carried traces of doubt and fear, like a poison seeping into the cracks of my resolve. They didn't trust me. I didn't blame them; doubt had long been a companion of mine, whispering in my ear like a dark shadow.

I can't recall exactly how the idea of leaving first entered my mind; perhaps it had always been buried deep in the darkest corners of my subconscious, waiting for the right moment to surface. It wouldn't surprise me if I had tucked it away in the dusty drawer where I kept my most daring daydreams, dreams I barely dared to entertain. And it was all thanks to Violet, though she had no idea of the storm she had stirred within me.

Violet adored Spanish soap operas. She didn't care about the melodramatic plots or the endless episodes that seemed to stretch into eternity—she loved them all, every exaggerated twist and turn. She couldn't understand a single word of Spanish, nor could she read the subtitles that flickered across the screen, but that didn't matter. Watching them filled her with a contagious joy. Violet was my guardian, a woman who had taken me in when no one else would, and in a way, she was the catalyst for my longing for freedom.

I didn't know Spanish either, but I could read the subtitles. That's how it started. For the next three years, while my friends ran wild in the streets and fields, lost in the carefree abandon of youth, I spent countless hours with Violet, absorbing every episode, devouring every line of dialogue, and reading them aloud so that Violet could hear and understand the passion, the drama, the fire that the actors brought to life. It became our ritual, a small act of kindness that bound us together.

Three years later, something shifted in my mind, like a seed finally breaking through the soil. After hundreds of episodes, I realized I could speak Spanish—not the formal, polished Spanish taught in schools, but the kind spoken in those soap operas, a colorful blend of accents from Mexico, Venezuela, Colombia, and Argentina, each word rolling off my tongue like a song.

That's when the idea took root, growing with an intensity that startled me: I was going to Madrid, Spain. The thought bloomed in my mind, vivid and unshakable. I made up my mind. Armed with English and Spanish, I believed I could manage. All that was left was to get a passport and buy a ticket to Madrid. I imagined myself there, celebrating New Year's Eve under the city's dazzling lights, marking the beginning of my freedom, of a new life that I could barely comprehend.

I had always stayed in the place where I grew up, never venturing far and certainly never on my own. The only times I left were for school trips, and even then, we never crossed the borders of our country and never dared to venture into the unknown. But now, I was planning to travel over three thousand kilometers away, completely alone, into a world I had only glimpsed through the flickering screen of a television.

And I wasn't ready. Not at all.

I worked 14 grueling hours daily for two long, relentless months to save enough money for the ticket and passport. It was hard, back-breaking work, poorly paid, and draining, but the thought of standing on the streets of Madrid kept me going. My friends pitied me, shaking their heads, calling me a daydreamer, a fool lost in fantasies. They had dozens of logical, practical reasons why I shouldn't go, each sharper than the last, but I was driven by just one thought: "I'm going."

With a ticket to Madrid burning a hole in my pocket, a battered backpack on my shoulders, and a heart brimming with a wild mix of longing and fear, I said goodbye to my friends and headed for the bus station. They didn't try to stop me. In their eyes, my plan was as good as suicide, a reckless plunge into the abyss.

Their words lingered in my mind, like shadows whispering doubts in my ears as I walked. "You don't have enough money to survive. You don't know anyone. Where will you sleep? Eat? What if you get robbed? How will you get back?"

Each step toward the bus station felt like a battle, and every inch of ground gained a victory against the tide of fear and doubt. I could feel the weight of their gazes, their silent pleas for me to turn back, to stay in the safety of the familiar. If I had looked back, I might have given in and crumbled under the weight of their concerns. But I didn't.

Leaving everything behind was like tearing off a piece of my soul, even though my world was small and stifling. It felt like an eternity before I finally sat on the bus and looked out the window, my heart tumultuous. I half-expected my friends to follow me to the station, desperate to stop and drag me back to the life I was leaving behind. Maybe I was even hoping for it. It would have been easier to stay, to convince myself that I was doing it for them, that I was needed.

But no one came. The bus station remained eerily silent, the only sound the low hum of the bus engine. I sighed with relief, though I wasn't sure why. Perhaps my friends respected my decision or didn't care enough to try to stop me. The realization that I was alone filled me with a strange mix of pride and fear. I stood up, my heart pounding in my chest. "I can't do this. I'm not ready. What if they're right? What do I know about Madrid, about Spain? What do I know about life outside the town where I've spent seventeen years? Am I throwing away my life?"

I turned toward the exit, ready to flee, but something caught my eye—my reflection in the glass. Yes, that was me: a skinny, frightened young man with nothing to lose. No family, home, job, money, or girlfriend. No hope that life would get better. "Who am I?" The question hit me like a punch to the gut. "Am I someone who gives up when it gets tough?"

At that moment, I knew I couldn't go back. I had never really had a home. I'd been a tenant since birth, abandoned by my parents, living with strangers who took me out of duty rather than love.

I returned to my seat as the bus filled with passengers, each a mystery. I watched them, wondering what their reasons for traveling were and what stories they carried with them. My anxiety grew with each passing minute, and suddenly, I was desperate for the bus to start moving, to take me away from the temptation to run back to the life I knew. The ticket in my pocket felt heavier, like a concrete block, a weight that anchored me to my decision.

Ten long minutes passed, each one filled with the gnawing temptation to leave, to abandon this crazy plan. But when the driver finally closed the doors and started the engine, my heart tightened like a fist in my chest. The first step had been taken; there was no going back. I felt something shift inside me, a change as profound as the turning of the tides. I was no longer just a frightened boy but someone beginning to decide who he would be and who he could become.

Yes, I had a ticket and a destination in mind. Still, more than anything, I had my life in my hands, like a blank sheet of paper, ready to be filled with the words of a new story.

During the next seven hours on the road, I memorized everything I saw through the bus window—places I had never been, landscapes that blurred into a tapestry of colors and shapes, things I might never see again. It was all-important but also a distraction, a way to keep my doubts at bay, to focus on the journey rather than the fear gnawing at the edges of my resolve.

The bus stopped three times for breaks, but I stayed in my seat, too afraid that if I got off, I wouldn't have the courage to get back on. So, I sat there, staring straight ahead, ignoring the other passengers, my mind locked on the road ahead, the destination looming like a distant dream.

When we crossed the border, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and smiled for the first time in ten hours. I had made it. I had left the safe harbor and sailed into the unknown, where the wind would take me. It didn't matter where I would end up as long as I didn't have to return.

I wasn't ready.

I'll never be prepared for everything life brings. But the beauty is that I don't need to be. You just need the courage to follow your dreams; nothing else will matter.

Because if there's one truth I've learned, it's this: "Where your heart is, there is your home."