I’m sitting here with my suitcase by the door, laptop packed away, and Keith doing that thing cats do when they sense disruption—following me around with those knowing eyes that seem to say, “I see what’s happening here.” There’s something about leaving him that always hits differently than leaving anyone else. Maybe it’s because he can’t understand the concept of “two weeks” or “I’ll be back.” To him, I’m just… gone.

I need to head to the office first, get through a morning of meetings before catching the afternoon flight. There’s something exhausting about that routine now—the packing, the airport rituals, the small talk with taxi drivers about where I’m headed. I used to find travel energizing, but lately it feels heavier somehow. Maybe it’s just the accumulation of all the coming and going, all the temporary arrangements and borrowed beds.

But Brisbane feels like possibility right now, in that way places do when you’re testing them out as potential homes rather than just visiting. Two weeks of actual life there—morning coffee runs, evening grocery shops, figuring out which train gets me to the office without being that person who clearly doesn’t belong. I want to see how the city feels when it’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m tired from work, not just when it’s Saturday morning and everything feels optimistic.

And there are other things to explore too, personal connections that might be worth understanding better. Two weeks should give me enough ordinary moments to figure out what’s actually there—both with the city and with the possibilities it might hold.

The morning meetings start in an hour. Keith has moved to his favorite spot by the window, probably planning to spend the next two weeks judging my empty chair. Fair enough, really.