SAL-LHR

My name is Tatiana Morales. I’m 18. I love illustration, Doctor Who, and my family. Moving to London to study seemed like a great idea at the time.

For years I’d dreamt of how my life in this city would be like, how I’d finally be free from the intrusive gazes and oppressive atmosphere of home. I’d go to uni, learn about things I was actually interested in for a change, and meet all kinds of interesting people. I’d sketch strangers in coffee shops, go to museums and stay for hours looking at art, explore the streets of Camden Town. At the end of the day, I’d return home to my bed and blankets, make myself some soothing tea and rewatch Doctor Who episodes on my laptop.

I’d be the ideal Tatiana: the creative one, the one who had finally got her shit together, the one who was studying what she loved and lived in London, the one who had found friends who appreciated her for who she was, even with the- whisper it, so no one will hear- autism. Unfortunately for her, antisocial Tatiana wasn’t willing to go without a fight.

I only got as far as Starbucks.

It was a Saturday afternoon. Fall. This was exciting in itself, my home country of El Salvador doesn’t do seasons like the United Kingdom. There’s no snow in winter or much prelude to it in the preceding months. The temperature is so mild, I would rarely wear sweaters or shorts. The only outstanding thing about it is the humidity.

But London in the fall is magical. Brownish, reddish, and orangish leaves float seamlessly downwards. The atmosphere is crisp, in anticipation of colder days and nights, and hopefully, snow. People walk about the streets in their scarves, thick socks, and gloves. They seem quieter than usual, perhaps wondering what they’ll be getting their loved ones for the holidays.

 I was looking forward to some alone time with my sketchbook. I figured going to Starbucks, getting a latte instead of my usual double espresso, and getting to work sketching strangers would be a fine way to wrap up my first week of uni.

So I sat down intending to relax and enjoy the vibe. Sketched the face of a young woman looking out the window as she, deep in thought, toyed with her earlobe. Her nose was small and round, her eyebrows were thick. Perfect, should make for an expressive frown. I experienced passing envy. She had freckles, and I sprinkled them over her cheeks like stars. Her mouth was in a subtle smile. I was glad her thoughts appeared to be happy ones. 

 I took a deep breath and looked into the young woman’s eyes. It is said eyes are the windows to the soul. This young woman’s eyes were large, chocolate brown. There were bags under them. I wondered what all of this is supposed to say about her soul, but then chide myself. I shouldn’t take things so literally. 

But then she turned. She saw me looking.

Time for some quick damage control. I quickly blinked and looked down at my coffee cup. Which was stupid, as there wasn’t any coffee in it anymore. So I looked back up, focusing on the space behind her. Also stupid. My eyes darted back to the coffee cup. This is when I really began to panic. Trying to pretend I was never looking at her having failed spectacularly, I left and entered the bathroom.

By then, I was hyperventilating and flapping my hands. The world started to spin and I realised a panic attack was incoming. Fixating on the bathroom walls to keep myself grounded, I considered calling my parents.

I thought I could handle it, but this city just might be too much.

Everyone back home had warned my parents that I wasn’t ready, but I’d insisted. The Tatiana everyone around me sees is an introvert, quirky, but smart and mostly capable. Autistic Tatiana only rarely ever comes out, but even then, no one seems to notice her but me. 

London seems to bring her out quite a lot.

I’m the type of person who can start reading a book and almost immediately block out the rest of the world. Mom says when I’m like this it’s as if I’m in a world of my own. London is loud, but it’s the sheer amount of activity happening on the streets before you that does the talking, not the honking of buses. There are a lot of people, more people than I have ever seen, on the sidewalks. Back home, in San Salvador, I drive everywhere despite everywhere usually being less than fifteen minutes away. Here, when I ride the tube, everyone crams together, as if there isn’t another tube coming in five minutes. If people touch me, it’s uncomfortable and I wish they wouldn’t do that but I don’t feel an intense urge to scream. If it’s loud, all I need is a good book and I’m sorted. If someone talks to me, I can hold a conversation. But when I get home, why do I feel so tired?

“It’s completely fine if you change your mind,” my mother said to me after she and dad helped me get settled in my flat.

I had five other flatmates and most of them seemed to be in the kitchen when I got hungry and went to make myself some dinner. That night, I ordered Domino’s. As soon as I pressed the pay button, I promised myself I would be going into the kitchen next time.

Before university, I practiced my most earnest, friendly smile in front of the bathroom mirror. I pictured the people I’d met the day before. Georgia likes coffee and Harry Potter, she’s the redhead with the cool glasses. I make a note of telling her that. Anthony, the Scottish guy who’s into anime and soccer. Sam, the girl with a nose ring, heavy eyeliner, and intensely blue hair I met doodling comics outside class.

I feel tired now. I do want to scream. If it’s completely fine for me to go back, why does it feel so much like giving up?

And I really want this.

I try to picture what my life will be like if I go back to always sunny, always boring San Salvador. Life there will be easy compared to here.

But I want to give it a shot. I take a deep breath and step out.