23/4/25 A Little Story About an Alfajor

Yesterday, my dear friend Vira asked if I wanted to rehearse together, and I said yes. She took the bus, and I called an Uber. She’s the friend who always has my live location, and on the map, our little dots were almost overlapping. She sent me a screenshot and wrote, “Look, we’re in the same place!”

In that moment, I smiled—and felt a small lump rise in my throat.

I’ve never really had a sweet tooth. In all these years I've been living here in Argentina, I’ve probably had fewer than ten alfajores (Alfajor is a beloved Argentine treat made of two delicate cookies sandwiched together with dulce de leche, often coated in chocolate or dusted with powdered sugar). But lately, I’ve started buying them obsessively. I bought a lot, stuffing the fridge full. I’ve also started drinking mate every single day. I used to drink it occasionally, whenever I remembered, but now I make sure I drink it daily, like a quiet ritual.

Deep down, I know—it’s because I’m getting ready to leave.

It feels as though I’m trying to hold onto something through taste, trying to preserve a piece of this place in my body before I go.

Somewhere in my subconscious, I don’t want to let go.

I’m doing my best to tuck away the scent, the flavor, the warmth of this land—slowly, gently—into my body.

But the more tightly I try to hold on, the more the waves of unease begin to rise from within.

My body has never handled overly sweet things very well.

To me, dulce de leche has always felt optional—never something I’d go out of my way to buy or keep in the fridge.

But yesterday, before heading out to rehearsal, I had an alfajor. I didn’t pair it with tea, or coffee, or mate.

And then, I sat there in the Uber, my stomach tensed and tightened, as though it had begun to cry before I did.

And then, I followed.

That feeling—that this is really goodbye, that I’m really leaving Argentina—hit me all at once, without warning.

Yesterday, I also saw Dani.

She’s heading to Brazil to celebrate her birthday, and by the time she returns, I’ll already be in my final days here. Last night, we were at her place, sipping tea and chatting, when she gently asked, “Would you like me to take you to the airport?”

My chest tightened.

It was in that moment that I realized—quietly, suddenly—that the time for goodbyes is approaching.

Later, I arrived at the rehearsal space on my own.

I sat down and listened to the faint sound of tango music drifting in from the next room.

At first, I didn’t even realize I was crying. The tears just began falling quietly.

I stayed there, crying, waiting for Vira. And the moment she walked in and I saw her face, the wave of emotion returned, and I cried all over again.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t rush to comfort me.

She simply walked over and wrapped her arms around me.

Eventually, I settled.

And we began to dance.

Tomorrow night, I’ll see Adrián and Sil.

They are my closest friends here in Argentina—my chosen family on this land.

Adrián is about to head back to the U.S., and by the time he returns, I’ll already be gone.

When the three of us will next be together again, no one knows.

Last night, I wanted to write them a letter—something like a farewell and a blessing.

But when I sat down and picked up my pen, I broke down completely.

I realized I couldn’t even begin to write what I couldn’t bear to say out loud.

So far, I’ve only mentioned the friends I’ve seen over these past three days. There are others I haven’t named here, but they, too, are part of the life I’ve built in Argentina. Each of them holds a piece of my heart.

Our ways of being together are all different.

We met through different stories.

We speak different languages, move at different rhythms, and share different ways of spending time.

But at the core of it all—there is the same thing.

Love.

And now, at night, I sit alone on my bed, slowly typing these thoughts into my computer.

The room is quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the screen.

I feel as if both my heart and body are being quietly torn apart.

The tears fall on their own—warm, silent, steady.

Ever since I booked my flight a few days ago, I’ve kept myself busy.

But yesterday, the feelings came anyway—unexpected, uninvited, like a sudden tide rising from somewhere deep within.

I’ve always been someone who cries easily—at a sentence, at a sunset, at the gentlest brush of memory.

But yesterday’s crying felt different.

It was the kind of crying that comes from something caving in—a quiet collapse from the inside.

I cried until I felt hollow, and only fell asleep around four in the morning, exhausted.

When I woke up, my eyelids were so swollen, it felt like they could hold a chopstick.

I looked into the mirror at my puffy eyes, and strangely, I felt calm.

This version of me—she is simply loving with all she has, and saying goodbye with all she can.

I want to return to China for a while, to spend time with my family.

I want to travel, to wander, to let the world stretch me open again.

I’m longing for a new beginning—curious about what the next chapter in Europe might hold.

And in many ways, I know I’m ready for what’s ahead.

But at the same time, Argentina is the first place in my life that has ever truly felt like home.

It’s the first place where I built something that was entirely mine—a rhythm, a sense of belonging, a kind of chosen family on unfamiliar ground.

And deep down, I know: I’ll never really be ready to say goodbye to it.

I can’t imagine any kind of farewell that wouldn’t break my heart.

Honestly, I don’t think I ever will.

I tried to remember the last time I felt this kind of raw, uncontainable sadness.

Maybe it was in the fall of 2019, on the night before I left China.

I sat alone in my grandmother’s courtyard—crying softly at first, then harder, until I couldn’t hold anything back.

My family came to check on me, to offer comfort, but after a while, they just let me be.

I don’t believe in the concept that we should “control our emotions.”

Why must we hold them in when they are flowing, especially in front of those we love and feel safe with?

Crying is not weakness. It is not failure.

It’s simply the body’s way of saying: I love, I care, I value, and I am in the middle of something deeply real.

Modern society is far too quick to pathologize emotion, as if every intense feeling must be a trauma, a problem, an overreaction, or something inappropriate.

But emotion is not a symptom. It is a witness.

It’s proof that we’ve lived, that we’ve loved with everything we had, and that we’ve shown up—fully, vulnerably, and wholeheartedly.

There’s a Chinese saying: “Every feast must come to an end.”

That doesn’t mean the joy wasn’t real, or the bond wasn’t deep.

It simply reminds us that even the most beautiful moments are meant to pass.

And precisely because they end, we remember them even more tenderly—for how good they truly were.

—

So, Shikin, you don’t need to force yourself to eat another alfajor.

You’ve already taken in the tastes, the warmth, the music, and the wind of this place.

You’ve carried the memories, the love, the friendships, the laughter and the tears,

all those small and ordinary moments that made this life feel real.

None of it will be lost in goodbye.

They have already become a part of you—quietly, gently, deeply.

And you’ll walk toward your next chapter, with all of it.