Rainy Days & Paris Dreams

This past month, I did what every wellness guru in matching beige yoga sets insists is the key to happiness:
I became active.

I ran, walked, stretched, sweated…
I even lost a little weight, which felt less like a victory and more like a side effect.

It should’ve felt like the beginning of my personal comeback era, cue upbeat music, fresh hair, glow-up montage.
But in reality, it felt mostly like:
More laundry.
More leggings.
And a lot of “Why is my sports bra always missing?”

Because while my body was moving, my heart was… lounging somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere between the treadmill and reality, I found myself missing my family.
Especially my dad.

That’s when everything started to feel a little rainy,even when the sun was out.

Recently, I visited his grave, which is always an odd kind of appointment.
I show up, hoping for some cinematic lightning bolt of emotion, only to be met with… silence.
Like being stood up, but politely.

A cemetery is supposed to hold the essence of a person, but for me, it feels more like the universe misfiled his spirit.
The sign says “here,”
but my heart says,
“No… try somewhere else.”

So I do.
I try Paris.

In my mind, my dad didn’t die… he just moved to the city of carbs and charm.

I imagine him living on the top floor of a building with no elevator, because all romantic European lives require daily cardio.
He’d pretend to hate the stairs but secretly love the excuse to buy more pastries.

Every morning, he’d go downstairs for a baguette he absolutely doesn’t need, just so he can flirt with the cute waitress at the café who gives him an extra splash of champagne before noon. He’d insist it was an accident. We’d all know better.

Afternoons would be spent in restaurants, typing on an old laptop, pretending not to eavesdrop on everyone around him.
(It’s Paris. Everyone eavesdrops.)

He’d burn garlic at least twice a week, partially because he’s distracted by charming strangers at the market, partially because it’s simply his brand. His tiny apartment would smell like fresh bread, wine, and adventure.
He’d laugh too loudly, talk to strangers, and collect stories he’d never bother to explain.

He wouldn’t be haunting a gravestone.
He’d be living, messily, beautifully, and probably in linen shirts that are always slightly wrinkled.

And as unusual as it sounds, it’s easier to imagine he chose Paris over us than to accept that he’s gone.

Abandonment has a plot.
Death doesn’t.

If someone leaves, you can picture them coming back.
With stories.
And questionable souvenirs.
And maybe a tan.

But death?
Death is an abrupt ending when you were expecting at least a sequel, maybe even a spin-off.

So yes, in my quieter moments, I give him a tiny Paris apartment and a life where he still burns garlic and flirts dangerously close to inappropriate.
Because it makes him feel alive.
And honestly… it makes me feel alive, too.

It’s been almost twelve years since he left, in the real way.
Long enough for people to assume I’m fine.
Fine-ish.

You know that phrase,
“Time heals all wounds”? Yeah… I’m not buying it.
Time doesn’t heal; it just gives you new ways to carry things.
Like learning to balance heartbreak, coffee, and hope in one slightly trembling hand.

Now and then, when missing him gets louder, like someone turned up the volume without asking,
I do things that bring him closer.

I watch his favorite movies.
Or ones I think he would’ve rolled his eyes at, then secretly loved.
Sometimes I cook his favorite dishes, even when they turn out… interpretive.

These rituals make me smile, tear up, sometimes both.
Like a movie that isn’t sure if it’s a comedy or drama, so it’s both.

Meanwhile, real life, as it loves to do, continues without checking if I’m emotionally available.

In the last four months, I’ve collected nearly 800 job rejections.
Yes, eight. hundred.
At this point, I’m basically the CEO of “We regret to inform you.”

If rejections were a loyalty program, I’d be earning points toward a free coffee by now.
Maybe even a croissant.

At first, I thought it meant I was terrible, like truly hopeless.
But deep down, I know I’m good at what I do.
I just haven’t met my employment soulmate yet.
The job market here in Switzerland is… let’s say, character-building. Still, I keep applying.
Keep refreshing my email like it’s my part-time job,it kind of is.

Because what else can you do?
Life keeps moving, even when you’re walking in emotional puddles.

So maybe rainy days aren’t here to make us sad.
Maybe they’re just slow enough to let us remember, and reimagine.

Maybe keeping someone alive doesn’t mean keeping them here,
But keeping them somewhere you can still visit.
A tiny apartment in Paris works fine for me.

It makes me wonder…
When life carries us forward, how do we carry the ones we’ve lost along for the ride?