Neos Kosmos

Winter

I knew the paths in the National Gardens like the back of my hand.

The winter sun warmed my face. It had been three winters in a row where I was not miserable. Or at least, not because of the weather.

2024 had been the worst year of my life to date^[1]. Although my Instagram feed would tell a different story, with the perfect tiles of travel across continents; every city ended the same way. A cold, dark hotel room with my phone lighting up my face as I texted a guy who didn’t care if I was dead or alive.

I was not happy anymore. But I had spent three years_^[2][3] proving that this life was exactly what I wanted. Leaving felt like failure. Worse, it felt like confirming the chorus I had been running from. I told you so. You should have never left home. I told you so.

Anger ran in my veins. I could not understand why no matter how much I waited, softened, or made myself smaller, I was still not enough to be chosen^{[4][5][6][7][8]}. Something had to change, because it was not normal to live with this much grief over something I could not control.

That night, I prayed for the first time in years.

I had grown up Catholic and rejected it as I got older, but desperation has a way of leading you back to forgotten doors. My prayer was simple: please, help me get out of this. I did not know what this meant. I only knew I was tired of being half-held, half-seen, existing at the edges of someone else’s life.

When you begin the process of real change, it’s common that you are met by the very things to pull you back.

I met J at very warm, red-lit bars with shadowed corners and walls that always turned a blind eye. He spoke in strange stories and moved through rooms like he belonged to none of them, carrying a human-sized backpack everywhere he went. I still don’t know why. There was something about him that unsettled me in a way I could not name.

He arrived offering distraction. The promise of forgetting. He did not ask me to heal, only to step aside from my pain for a moment. It felt easier than facing myself.

In ways I did not expect, he reflected back what I had become: quicker to anger, slower to grace, more reactive than kind. The weight of my past finally broke through and I placed it in his hands. I answered hurt with hurt. I chose sharpness where gentleness was required. I fractured what was already fragile.

This is not who I wanted to be.

I saw it clearly in the aftermath, like scattered broken glass at my feet. It was a test to see if I could act with kindness despite my open wounds, and I failed.

Early Spring

By the time I arrived in the Big Apple^[9], it was still winter, but I no longer felt its bite. I was met with warmth in other forms.

Georgie had flown in from Australia and was waiting for me at JFK. TeJaun listened as I complained about the year that had barely begun over a terrible Greek gyro. Visha walked me through Times Square and into a bar on St Patrick’s Day called Barcelona, where we laughed and cried.

The pattern followed me west.

Sam took me for comfort food in a part of San Francisco I had never been to before. Rebekah brought me into one of the coolest tech offices. Rhiannon and I planned to get drinks, only for me to forget my ID and walk all the way back to the hotel laughing.

In Monterey, I took the stage to emcee an internal conference. I stood in front of my colleagues, attempting to make them laugh as I guided them through the day. Feeling their energy move back and forth reminded me that I was still connected and that I mattered, not because I was impressive, but because I was part of a community^[10].

When Joe flew into California from the UAE, it suddenly felt like we were university students again. When we drove out to Yosemite, we stayed in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by redwood trees and a kind of silence that lets you breathe again.

I returned to Sheffield first, then London where I met Chris. What began as a conversation over a shared curiosity turned into a real friendship.

As my friends prepared the ground with petals soft enough for me to lay on, their care lightened what I carried. Some days, I almost forgot why I was hurting.

And then, under the pink tree outside my parents’ house, my phone lit up again. The blush on my face that had returned, suddenly drained out of me all at once.

I stayed in contact longer than I should have. It had been years since 2022^[11]. A call was enough to unravel weeks of steadiness. His existence angered me, and his name tightened my chest. I hated how easily I was drawn back into a place I thought I had escaped.

Late Spring

The Greek islands were blurred from the airplane window. Blue water, white edges like a painting I couldn’t touch. Even through tears, they were still beautiful.

The concerned man beside me handed me a tissue. I took it. I don’t remember saying thank you.

Athens came in pieces. Late afternoon light. Heat on my skin. His face outside the airport. I had been hit so many times by then that I didn’t brace anymore. Whatever armour I had left was cracked and thin.

I stepped toward him anyway.

Glyfada. A dying tree. A broken road. I remember standing there, asking to be chosen one last time. There was no shield left to lift. Only the hope that kept standing up even when it shouldn’t.

He laughed, lightly, as if nothing serious was being said. As if seriousness belonged to someone ten years younger than him.

“The next girl I meet who’s as funny as you,” he said, “I’ll marry immediately.” ^[12]

The last hit. The sound dropped out. Everything was grey. Like the screen had dimmed. Like my health bar had hit zero and hadn’t realised it yet.

*

I retreated up the narrow steps of Kolonaki^[13] into a corner bar that teleported you to New Orleans. Whisky burned on the way down. It helped, briefly. Its relief was as temporary as I had been to him.

A woman walked in wearing a red dress, with a book in hand and a strong American accent. There was something deliberate about her, something unafraid. At some point, she pulled a small deck of goddess cards from her purse. I didn’t believe in any of it. But grief makes you curious, and alcohol makes you careless. I drew a card anyway.

It was the Virgin Mary. “Expect a miracle,” it read. “Have faith that your prayers have been heard and are being answered.”

I held the card longer than I meant to.

The morning after, I stumbled out of bed into the living room of my small apartment, where sunlight was already spilling in. As I always did, I checked on my indoor plants. I’d brought them home two years earlier as small cuttings; now they stood nearly as tall as me.

I shook off the weight of the night before and went out into familiar routes through the gardens.

New day. May 17th, 2025.

The green parakeets were noisier than usual, and tourists flooded every corner of the city. Despite the season chaos building up, the air felt like it moved more easily around me.

The first time I saw Oliver, the ice of my freddo espresso had already melted. We sat in the shade of the olive tree under the Acropolis, letting it shield us from the sun as we shared the stories that had led us to that very moment. There was no need to translate myself, he understood everything I was saying without effort.

There was a calmness to him that felt certain, not rehearsed. The kind that doesn’t rush to speak or fill the air. He listened fully, without interruption, without impatience. I felt my guard soften before I realised I had lowered it.

There was golden light to his presence that was bright enough to see where to step next. It wasn’t something he did. It was simply how he was.

The ancient stones felt steady beneath me, and for once, so did I. When we parted ways, a bird left its mark in my hair. I laughed and took it as a blessing.

Summer

For six weeks, he lived in Neos Kosmos^[14]. New world.

The name felt fitting.

By then, I had walked nearly every terrain in Greece, collected moments across islands and cities, each beautiful in its own way.

And still, those weeks stood apart. They unfolded differently than anything before them. It was as if I had been handed the same city, but with new eyes.

From his balcony, we watched the light move across the Parthenon in the morning, in the afternoon, and again at night, trying to compress decades of our lives into the hours we shared. I noticed the birthmark on his hand then, the same pinks and purples that coloured the sky as evening settled in.

Getting to know him felt easy.

He arrived offering presence. Not escape, not forgetting. He did not ask me to step aside from my pain, but to sit with it, gently and learn to forgive.

In ways I did not expect, he reflected back who I still was: capable of softness, open to grace, steady rather than reactive.

This is who I wanted to be.

We lingered over conversations, laughed at small things, let moments stretch without needing to fill them. I didn’t find myself bracing or preparing for impact.

The excitement was quiet, the kind that settles into you instead of sweeping you away. It felt less like learning someone new and more like remembering someone I’d always known.

By the time I left for a work trip to Zurich, I knew it was the last time I’d be in Athens^[15]. Letting go had never come easily, but up in the quiet of the Alps, the decision didn’t feel like a loss. It felt like making room.

I told Joanna first. My first friend in Athens. I thanked her, and insisted she keep what I couldn’t take with me, including the plants that had grown alongside me. I cried. Even though I knew I wouldn’t return to the city anytime soon, I also knew it wouldn’t be the last time I saw her.

Then there was Dimitra. We spent hours over coffee, brunch and drinks in Pangrati, talking our way through the weeks. Her presence was generous and kind, and I’ll always carry that with me.

And Olive, who told me gently that it was time to truly heal, that sometimes you have to leave the place that hurt you most in order to do so.

Making friends as an adult is difficult. Still, they welcomed me with open arms. I survived Greece because of them, and I will always be grateful.

*

Before flying to New York, I met Oliver in London. Against the grey backdrop of the city I knew well, he made it clear this wasn’t something fleeting.

When I landed in America for the third time this year, he was the first person I texted to say I’d arrived safely. He always responded. The city was louder in summer, heavier with heat. Yet I moved through work and long evenings with ease, celebrating my twenty-ninth birthday^[16] high above the streets, the lights stretching out beneath me.

Brighton came quietly. I went to visit him with no plan beyond the month. But something in the light off the water, the hum of the pier, and the curved houses; each with a story asked me to stay.

By August, I was unpacking boxes and choosing furniture^[17]. I finally filled the gap on my keychain where my Athenian keys used to be.

I was not passing through this time.

Autumn

As the country slipped into copper and rust, I felt my life begin to root itself again. What followed was a season of open doors; friends and family arriving week after week.

Around the dinner table, we passed plates of warm food, poured red wine, and laughed until sound returned to rooms that had once been empty. It felt like a feast in the truest sense. Not extravagant, but abundant. A quiet celebration of coming back to life.

In time, his shoes appeared on the rack. His coat brushed against mine. His toothbrush took its place by the sink. His presence folded itself gently into my days, and without effort, we found a rhythm together.

*

One Sunday, I found myself walking into church again.

In the first weeks, I cried without warning. Not from grief, but recognition. It felt like returning to something that had been waiting quietly for me to come back.

One morning, as we stepped outside the church, two butterflies crossed our path. I watched them disappear into the light and smiled. It felt like a sign, gentle and unannounced.

Faith feels different now. Not something I reach for in desperation or push away in defiance, but a table I step up to willingly. We pray together each morning and night, and attend liturgy every Sunday. It’s a rhythm I’ve come to love, shared with him and with the community that gathers.

Winter

Last week, we found a Christmas tree^[18]. It was a little wonky, leaning slightly to one side with branches that didn’t quite match up. We decorated it anyway. It reminds me that grace is rarely symmetrical. It usually looks like this: messy, real, and still somehow full of light.

I look around the living room, taking stock of the year that has been. This is a house built from love and safety. I feel it settle into my body; my nervous system, once so frayed, is finally steady. It feels like the years the locusts had eaten are being gently restored^[19].

My phone sits on the table, silent. I don’t need its artificial glow to feel seen anymore.

In the mornings, I glance over at Oliver and catch the low winter sun moving through the glass. It hits his face, turning his profile to gold. A wave of love overwhelms me. Not the anxious, grasping kind, but a quiet, heavy tide. I see his kindness. I see the space he has held for me.

For so long, I thought I had to prove that the weight of life was mine to carry alone. But here, I have found a yoke that is easy and a burden that is light^[20].

We are home together.

---

Author’s note: This piece marks a year of transition, not my usual end-of-year post. It brings together places, people, and prayers that shaped me in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. Some parts reach back to earlier writing; others are new. All of it is true as I remember it.