SEE YOU IN TEN MINUTES

The plane has landed. People are mumbling in Dutch and English around me. I stare ahead, dazed. The weather is, as I can see from the window, as I remember it. Cold, gray, wet. The sun is absent, as is any sign of blue sky. As I get off the plane, I pull my coat tighter around me, hiding in the collar. Bracing.

Friends and family are all faithfully waiting for me. Happy, expectant faces, warm hugs, someone taking my luggage from me. Feelings I cannot match. I want to sink through a hole in the ground. The road home passes by me in a blur. Endless meadows, water, flatness stretching out as far as you can see.

Being back in my old city is familiar but different.

I move automatically through the crowd.

I try not to be thrown off by the Dutch ways of interacting.

People who cut in line, push me aside if they can't get somewhere fast enough.

People who don't give each other space, cycling half in your back wheel.

I can't help thinking: in Australia, people would never do this.

And then immediately I judge myself for it.

Don't think you've suddenly invented life as an emigrant.

It’s nice to see my friends again. They pull me into their plans, and I try not to talk about Australia too much, to stay present, to be interested, to be there.

I have to focus constantly; keeping my attention in Dutch, stopping English words from slipping in, trying not to seem like a different version of myself.

I feel like I’m performing in a play, a role I didn’t choose.

I feel connected.

And yet completely alone.

Who can I talk to about my spirituality now?

Who can I take camping with?

But I couldn’t wish for better friends.
I know that.
They make me hot cross buns for my birthday, because I told them I missed them.
Tears form. I search for words of gratitude.

I start again at my old job almost immediately, anything to avoid being alone with my own thoughts. Nothing’s changed.
Co-workers greet me enthusiastically.
“Are you happy to be back in the Netherlands?”
No is not the right answer, so I smile and nod along, aware of the knot in my stomach.
“How is work?” My parents ask.
“Oh, you know,” I say lightly. “I don’t love it.”
“You should be grateful for having a job in the first place.”
“I am,” I say, looking down at my plate.
Moving peas from one corner to another.

I miss my almond lattes, the kombuchas, the big avocados, paying in Australian dollars, the space in public areas.
I don't know where to find a public toilet when I take a walk.
I try doing small talk.
I accidentally respond in English ordering my coffee, cheeks turning red.

Drinks with friends, meeting in a bar.
“We’re so happy you’re back. Really.”
I nod. “I’m happy to see you all again too. That’s not it.”
An arm around my shoulder. A knowing look.
“What you need is stability. You haven’t really had a home these past few years.”
I shrug. “I had a house. That was my home.”
A dismissive gesture.
“But that doesn’t really count, does it?”
Why not, I think. But I don’t say it.

Afterwards, I cycle home.

Or actually, it’s not my home. Not really. A sublet. Someone trusting me with their place while they discover the world themselves.

Cycling feels familiar. Liberating.
Riding on the right isn’t strange.
With the wind in my hair, I exhale.
I move past other cyclists, dodge cars, shout at passers-by stepping into the road.
Knuckles white, thighs aching.
I pedal harder.
As if I can shake the conversation loose.

That doesn’t really count. Does it?

Fuck you, I think.
Easy to say, when you’re not the one starting over.

At home, an empty house awaits.

No Katy as house mate,

No dogs,

No vegetable garden that needs watering,

No green throw on the couch to crawl under.

I try to wash the longing off me in the shower, away down the drain.

It's pointless to keep thinking about Australia, I tell myself.

I don't want to be here,

I don't want to be here,

I don't want to be here,

the little voice in my head repeats over and over, back and forth.

I am tired of beginning from scratch.

Especially when it wasn’t even my own choice.

Meanwhile, life goes on. There, too.

Messages keep appearing in the café group chat.
“We have a new coffee grinder, guys!”
“Who closed up yesterday? The door wasn’t shut properly.”
Small things. Ordinary things. The kind of things I used to answer without thinking.
Now I just watch them appear on the screen.
It’s no longer my place to respond.
Photos appear on Instagram. Friends on the beach, laughing, sun-tanned, a glass of wine in their hands. Holding conversations I am no longer part of. Making jokes I don’t even know about. Events in the city announced on Facebook that I can no longer attend. Sunsets I’m no longer there to see.

Another woman living in my room.
Or maybe it isn’t my room anymore.
Her shower items spread out in the bathroom.
Her groceries on my shelf in the fridge.
Her shoes next to the door instead of mine.
Slowly, quietly, my places are being filled.
As if I was never really there.

The nights are restless and disorienting. Dreams about flights that are missed. Empty suitcases, sprinting between gates. Parents watching from the sidelines as I either leave or do not.

Other nights I wake up from strange noises. Realizing I am no longer in my old room. Disappointment spreading out like a cloud. Pulling the blankets tighter around me. Trying desperately to swallow the disappointment. Staring at the dark wall.

I close my eyes and then imagine the house.

My light bedroom, sun in the afternoon.

White shutters that let strips of bright sunlight in.

A vintage dresser with golden knobs.

The random holes in the walls that irritated me at first but that I now miss intensely.

The suspicious stains in the carpet that I could never figure out what they were.

3 AM, that means it is now 1 PM in Australia.

What would Katy be doing now?

Would the dogs be lying at her feet in the living room?

Would the neighbour be mowing the grass as usual?

Would there be a line at the ice cream shop on the shopping street?

Would the botanical garden in the city be full of people celebrating the summer?

I imagine myself standing on the beach there. The beach road that I always took for granted. I can almost smell the typical scent of Australian plants and herbs.

I feel the sand between my toes.

The sun, strong, on my skin.

I feel the water, always colder than I think.

I see the colorful beach huts.

I feel the freedom of being who I was there.

Or who I tried to be.

I see myself walking back to my campervan. My Mercedes. The best bad purchase I ever made.

I toss my wet towel on the passenger seat, my slippers full of sand, on the floor. The phone rings. It's Katy.

"Where are you? Are you still at the beach?"

"I was just about to drive back home."

"I'm nearby, want some frozen yogurt?"

I smile. "Is that even a question?"

Katy laughs. "See you in ten minutes."

I laugh back. "See you in a second."

I see myself driving away. Bare feet pressing the pedal. Behind me, the sky red, pink, and orange.

I feel a tear sliding down my cheek. I stare at the bulletin board with postcards not meant for me. The clock ticking 4 AM. And I smile.

See you in ten minutes.

Maaike Lommerse is a writer originally from the Netherlands, who has lived abroad in Australia for several years. She writes fiction and personal essays that explore themes of movement, belonging, grief, and becoming. Her work reflects on transition, place and identity, and is written to offer moments of recognition.