Returning to Sydney

Sydney looked the same but sharper, almost too bright, like it had been waiting with the lights on. The supermarket aisles felt louder than New York ever did, the white tiles shining back at me like they were checking if I had changed. I kept thinking the city would feel familiar, but everything had been rearranged in my absence. Even the air felt cleaner, almost suspiciously so, as if it wasn’t sure I deserved a soft landing.

I walked through the city with the sense that something had been moved an inch to the left.

The colours too bright, the shadows unfamiliar, the air almost indifferent.

Sydney didn’t feel like a place I had returned to.

It felt like a version of itself built in my absence, a duplicate with rounder edges.

I kept waiting for something to click into place.

It never did.