Coming Back to Himself
Oliver had not set foot on this street in years—the very place where his life had once begun. The cracked and uneven pavement seemed to emerge from a distant past, when he’d raced down it barefoot and carefree, chasing the sunlight. The houses still stood shoulder to shoulder, huddled together like old friends sharing secrets. Peeling paint, crooked steps, the ever-present dampness of basement air, and the faint whiff of cheap soap—nothing had changed. Time itself must have forgotten this corner of the world.
Outside number nine, his chest tightened—was it nostalgia or something else? The dimly lit stairwell greeted him with the familiar scent of freshly baked bread—or was it just his memory playing tricks? On the third floor, he’d once kissed Emily Whitaker—clumsy, nervous, hands trembling, heart pounding. They were sixteen, convinced life stretched endlessly ahead, like a train with every carriage packed full of dreams and promises.
He climbed the stairs, fingers grazing the banister, still marked by childhood pocketknife scratches. Flat twenty-eight. A new door now—heavy, impersonal metal. Whoever lived behind it had no idea that laughter once spilled from this place, that dinners had been loud with debate, or that homemade plays had been staged with bedsheets and string lights. Someone else now lived in the space his memories had built. They probably didn’t even know that, in the little room facing the balcony, Oliver had once vowed to become a pilot—or, at the very least, to learn how to fly in his dreams.
He almost knocked. Just to ask for a glass of water, to inquire if an old toy still sat in the loft or if a battered photo album gathered dust beneath the wardrobe. But he stopped. This door no longer belonged to him. It was a threshold into someone else’s life—one with no room for him.
At the foot of the stairs, a little girl sat on the kerb, clutching a tatty teddy bear with one ear stitched back on with white thread.
“Mister, are you lost?” she asked, staring up with big, earnest eyes.
Oliver chuckled around the lump in his throat. “Maybe. Or maybe… I just found what I was looking for.”
She nodded, solemn beyond her years. “Everyone comes here looking for something. Then they forget why they came.”
Rain began to fall—fat, warm drops that smelled of leaves and wet pavement. It reminded him of childhood downpours, when no one bothered with umbrellas, and getting soaked was half the fun. Oliver stepped out into it, letting it wash over him like a baptism. The air was thick with petrichor. He walked slowly—past the corner shop where he’d bought gingerbread biscuits with his nan, past the school gates where he’d thrown his first punch for a friend, realising for the first time that some pain wasn’t your own.
The old kiosk on the corner was still there, now covered in graffiti. The smell of fried meat wafted out. Oliver bought a kebab—just like he had as a teenager, when happiness was as simple as warm bread, too much chilli sauce, and a heart unburdened. He sat on a bench under a chestnut tree, watching rain drip from the leaves like silent, grateful tears.
People hurried by, eyes down, lost in phones or worries. No one recognised him. No one stopped. And in that anonymity, he felt free. He could be nobody. And because of that—he was finally himself.
From his pocket, he pulled an old notebook. Yellowed pages, faded scribbles. On the very first one, a hopeful, reckless line: *”I’ll come back when I know why.”*
Once, he’d thought the answer would be fame or success. Now he understood—he’d come back to let go. Not for answers. Not for victories. Not to reclaim anything. He’d come back to say goodbye to the boy who’d believed time could be frozen, who’d dreamed of living forever in that endless summer of kickabouts and cut grass.
Oliver stood up. The rain no longer felt cold—just cleansing. It washed away the last traces of fear, of hurt, of longing. He tossed the empty wrapper away—not just rubbish, but a farewell. Then he walked on—without looking back. Lighter. At peace.
Every step was new. Not away from the past—but toward himself.
