Momentum
Maybe I wasted 35 bucks on a train ticket to Prague.
It wouldn’t be the first time I lost money betting on hope. Was it hope? Or a sense of connection? Adventure? Hope.
I had arrived in Budapest on what was supposed to be a two-week stopover — the kind of in-the-moment detour that people with a bit of savings and an intentionally vague life plan make. The city had seduced me in three languages, two ruin pubs, and one painfully good shot of plum pálinka. I stayed.
Then came Luca.
Twenty-six. Swiss. Tall in the way that made me suspicious of my own judgment. He had the floppy hair of a philosophy student and the swagger of someone who never had to worry about taxes. Almost cliché, but that was part of the fun. We met at a dive bar in the 7th district, bonding over music and the mutual inability to pronounce Hungarian food menus with any dignity.
By night one, I kissed him. By night three, I tried Molly for the first time…chilled in my Airbnb with a perfect playlist and his hand curled around me like a comma.
“It’s just serotonin,” I told myself. But it felt like a holy experience. The kind that makes you forget you used to scoff at people who described anything as “a vibe.”
He introduced me to music I hadn’t ever really taken much time to dive into—minimalist techno, deep house, weird Icelandic stuff that sounded like an anxiety attack underwater. It was thrilling. Like slipping into someone else’s life for a while…and realizing it fit me well.
So when he messaged me, half-drunk, saying “Come to Prague this weekend. Let’s make some memories,” I booked the ticket without blinking.
Three days after that, his messages had gone from “Can’t wait to see you 😍” to “Might be busy Saturday tbh, let’s play it by ear.”
Cue: the unmistakable scent of the soft fade.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew the signs. Who doesn’t? The fizzling texts. The slowly unthreading enthusiasm. The subtle shift from you’re the best part of my day to you’re...here. And yet, I didn’t cancel the ticket.
Because here’s the thing: I wanted the possibility. Even if it was built on sand. Even if he ghosted me halfway through a Czech lager.
I wanted to wear my combat boots, walk along the Vltava with the hint of adventure in my chest, and believe—just for the weekend—that connection didn’t always have to come with paperwork and matching emotional resumes.
I wasn’t trying to marry the guy. I just wanted to feel something. And maybe flirt in French. And maybe kiss someone on a bridge at sunset.
If he showed up and disappointed me, well...I’d survived worse. If he didn’t show up at all, Prague still would.
And me? I’d be fine. I’d order myself a deliciously cheap beer, open my journal, and write this version of myself into the story anyway.
Girl, no raagrets: some train rides are worth taking—even if I’m the only one who gets off at the station.