Dalila

 Dalila is my accomplice.

She doesn't speak, but she knows everything.

She has slept with me on cold airport floors, leaned against plastic chairs in bus stations, and rested at my feet on boats that smelled of salt and diesel. Wherever I go, she is there, pretending to be just a backpack.

But Dalila knows my back exactly.

She has learned its shape, its tired days, and its stubborn strength. She never complains, even when I overload her with things I think I’ll need. She carries the weight the way real friends do—silently.

Inside her, my life is divided into compartments: clothes, papers, a notebook full of half-finished thoughts, and memories disguised as objects. 

She has felt my fear at borders, my relief after landing, and my excitement before departures with no clear return date.

People see luggage.

I see a witness.

Dalila is proof that I move and choose roads over comfort. As long as she is with me, I am never really lost.

Wishing you all safe journeys 🩵