It was really hard to leave Seattle this weekend. I didn’t know how much I’d missed my old city until I had to say goodbye again, didn’t expect to feel so much guilt for the way I’d left before. I didn’t realize stopping by for a weekend would feel like running into an old flame out with someone else.

She was beautiful, my former city, and I’d catch glimpses of her between conversations with the friends I’d gone there to see. But since I didn’t know what to say to her or how she’d been since I’d ended it, most of the weekend I just pretended we’d never had anything at all. A few minutes before I had to leave I reached for her in desperation, hoping to find some selfish validation that we’d indeed been good once. But when I met her eyes she looked at me like I’d broken her heart, reminding me that I’d never really acknowledged why I’d left her, never really apologized for being so sure that it was time to move on. Seconds before I had to go back to Utah I was hit with all the beautiful things we used to have, shamed that I’d managed to reduce us to almost nothing in my memory. My heart broke to realize how little I’d thought of us over the last year, how easily I’d written her off as a minor part of those years when she was so obviously the most important part of them. But as I saw our relationship clearly for the first time I also knew that in a few seconds I’d choose to leave her all over again, this time knowing full well what I was giving up.

This time last year I was just so ready to go. I’d been in one place for five years, too long my restless mind argued. My time in Seattle had been great, of course, and I’d always be able to come back, I’d reasoned, but it was time for something to change and moving back in with my parents seemed like the simplest option (much better than figuring out a career path or distracting myself with a guy). I’d always known I would leave the city someday, never once considering that our temporary union may have crossed into a lasting one.

With only a week or so to plan I made arrangements to leave right after a friend’s wedding, giving myself no time to think or really to even process what I was doing. I raced through goodbyes, turning down job offers and fitting friends in as I could, taking 24 hours to box five years into a rental car. A friend needed a ride up to Canada for a flight so we made an adventure out of it, driving up to a hostel the night before her morning departure and spending my last night in the Northwest exploring Vancouver. It wasn’t hard to push aside thoughts of the emerald city that I was about to leave behind.

The next day I drove back to Seattle alone, stopping by my apartment for an hour or so to grab the last of my stuff and leave the key in the mailbox. I looked in the rear view mirror once as I drove away; it didn’t occur to me to make a big deal of goodbye. I felt good to be on my way, the promise of change more enticing than the pangs of familiarity. Seattle would be fine without me; we always knew we were temporary.

I took two days to drive to Utah, spending the night in some random motel in the mountains and singing my way through CDs I bought from Walmart bargain bins along the way. I meant to spend that time saying goodbye to my old life, thinking about the good times we’d had and ways we’d grown. Instead I didn’t think about much of anything, humming along to familiar tunes and testing the limits of my gas tank.

When I got to my parents’ house I couldn’t bring myself to pull into the driveway, passing by and motoring to the top of the hill to watch the sun set behind the mountains that would always be my home. I parked the car and cried, thankful to be back but finally letting it hit me that I’d left so many friends behind. I cried for them and who we’d been, doing my best to fortify myself for a life without them only a bus ride away. I didn’t know then that those bus rides I spent alone were as much a part of me as those friends were. I didn’t realize then that those friends would be in my life forever, but Seattle was the best friend I was really leaving behind.

I didn’t think of Seattle much over this last year. I thought of my friends and the memories we’d made together, taking the time write them down or make a phone call to catch up, but rarely did I think of the city herself or the time I’d spent with her alone. When people asked me about my time there I’d say that I loved her, that she was nothing short of wonderful, but then I’d continue saying I’d always known I didn’t want to end up there, that I saw my chance to run and I took it. If I hadn’t I may never have left, I’d tell them, like she was some mediocre boyfriend that I’d stayed with too long. Never did I let myself think I really missed her. We’d had a good time then, sure, but it was over now; we were both ready to move on.

When I arrived at SeaTac last weekend it had been over a year since I’d been back. For five years I’d gone to and from this airport so many times I’d lost track, always stopping to look out the terminal’s wall of windows and appreciate the city I’d chosen. Less than a handful of those times I’d asked someone to pick me up or drop me off, usually taking the bus or light rail to give myself an hour or so alone with Seattle to welcome myself back or say goodbye. This time I decided my time was limited, asking my friend to pick me up directly so we could maximize our time together. I’m here to see my friends this weekend, I’d reasoned, I’d seen enough of the city when I lived here before. My friends were my only priority now, I told myself, like Seattle wasn’t something worth catching up with, like she’d never been anything more to me than a place to keep my stuff.

As I walked past the wall of windows towards baggage claim I couldn’t bring myself to stop and take it in like I’d used to, shrugging off something like guilt and rushing towards my ride and away from the sinking feeling that something wasn’t right. I should have known then that I’d hurt her when I’d left; I should have known better than to ask my friend to pick me up.

The rest of the weekend went wonderfully, I bounced from friend to friend, catching up and savoring the ability to sit with them in person. We didn’t have much time together so we mostly just hung out in each other’s presence, talking in their living rooms and laughing in restaurants. We went to parties and checked off to-do lists, talked about life and where we were going, extended the conversations we’d had over Skype and phone calls all year. It was nice, and just what I’d needed, but when they asked if I wanted to explore the city I told them I didn’t need to, assuring them I was only there to see my friends. The relationship I had with Seattle didn’t compare to the ones I had with them, why waste time with her when I could spend it with them?

The brief moments I was alone that weekend I spent in transit, catching a bus from one house to the next, thinking more about the friends I was about to see than allowing myself to remember what Seattle and I had had before. For the first time in my life I was uncomfortable being left alone with her, finding myself hoping for car rides and saying absurd things like, I don’t know how to cross these big city streets anymore and I don’t know which bus to ride. For the first time in my life I was angry when a bus came late. For the first time in my life I felt scared when I was walking past strangers. The city felt foreign to me, and every time I was alone with her I felt an incredible sadness I couldn’t understand. I told myself it was because I wanted to spend more time with my friends, which was definitely true, but it was more than that. I didn’t want to be alone with her, afraid she’d changed, or worse, afraid to realize I had.

So many things had changed in a year, restaurants closed and stores replaced, students turned over and apartments abandoned. Half my friends had moved away and the others were too busy to meet up, I was so overwhelmed that I didn’t let people I dearly love know I was even in town. My campus was even different, places I’d never forget buried by new construction or replaced with imitations. I knew I’d changed too, but was I so different that the city couldn’t recognize me? Would we have anything in common now that we’d been apart?

On Sunday I said goodbye to the last of my friends, feeling uncomfortable as I waited for the bus that would take me to the light rail which would take me to the plane which would take me back to Utah. The stop was unfamiliar and my bag was too heavy, my mood getting worse by the second and my heart rate triple what it should have been. I was almost angry, pissed that I was wasting a second of my weekend standing here alone and sick to my stomach that nothing around me seemed to make sense.

But then I saw her, or maybe more accurately, I felt her. The weather was perfectly overcast, bits of sun breaking through the clouds to light the packed Sunday streets. The afternoon had brought in the usual mist, a light breeze blowing it lightly onto my skin, the sunshine reflecting off the drops in indistinguishable rays. I took deep, full breaths of the suddenly sweet air and turned my face up towards the sky to take in the contrasting sensations of both sun and rain on my skin. It felt like Seattle had stepped out from behind a corner, revealing herself to me unintentionally and just in time. She was beautiful and intoxicating and as I stepped onto the bus I started to remember what it was we’d had.

When I got downtown I decided to take a moment to acknowledge her, to tell her she looked great and wish her well before I had to leave again. I checked the time and convinced myself I had a few minutes to spare before my flight, though I’d already left over a half hour later than I’d planned to, heading up from the bus tunnel to the street level and bee-lining it for Pike’s Public Market. I was hesitant at first, taking a few seconds to get used to walking in crowds again, but pretty soon I was leading the pack, jaywalking across the busy streets and heading out early when I knew the light was about to change. The closer I got to the water the better I felt, closer to feeling like I belonged with every step.

But when I got to Pike’s I couldn’t bring myself to cross the street to enter the market, suddenly feeling like if I took one more step I’d be hit by a car or crumble under the weight of my guilt. I stood on the corner and there she was, across from me looking as beautiful as she ever had, the sunlight reflecting off the water and the Public Market sign framed by wisps of clouds. I felt my heart shatter when she met my gaze, showing me such sadness that I knew if I took one step closer we’d both collapse. She silently plead with me to leave her alone, letting me know in an instant that everything had changed since I’d left, that she hadn’t carried on without me as easily as I had her. She remembered every moment we’d spent together, every second I’d let myself forget. I’d left her behind while I went to find my future and hadn’t even acknowledged that she had deserved a goodbye.

She’d seen me do the same thing to other people in the years I lived with her, my need to move forward outweighing the realities of what I’d had, but she’d never thought I’d do the same to her. Neither did I. How could I forget us? Why didn’t I trust that what we’d had was real?

In an instant I realized that I’d broken both our hearts over the last year, and even if I wanted to – we’d never be able to mend them.

Shocked, I stared wistfully across the water for a few more seconds, savoring the smell of the rain and taking a photo before I knew I had to rush back to the light rail. All I wanted in that moment was to run to the water, to touch a piece of that view and never let her go again. She’d been mine once and I’d been able to go to her whenever I’d needed, yet now a year later it felt cruel to stand in her presence after I’d treated her so flippantly. As much as I wanted to I didn’t deserve to touch her again, especially when I knew I didn’t have time to explain why I’d left before, why I had to leave again. The damage had already been done, apologies would just make our parting even worse. Selfishly I considered going to her anyway, just one more time, but I didn’t, instead brushing away tears and turning away from the city and relationship that had meant the most to me.

She was always the one. When I was choosing schools for college I could never really explain what it was about Seattle that felt right. The other cities tempted me with famous names and specialized programs, fancy scholarships and familiar faces, but she didn’t need to boast any of that, easily winning me over on my visit with her regal campus and beautiful city parks. The second I saw her I forgot about the others, she was the one for me.

When my parents dropped me off with her I stood in that empty parking lot and didn’t feel alone. I was sad to see them go and didn’t know a soul in the state of Washington and yet I knew I’d be fine. I looked at the sky and the water and the stadium and knew it was just me and her from then on out, listening as she helped me take a deep breath and go make friends. She had my back even then when we’d just met. She took care of me so many times since.

Running for busses, walking the city, lying in parks, she was there with me the whole time. She watched me make friends and fall in love, helped me find independence and facilitated connections. She’d make sure I’d run into someone I knew when I needed to and helped me find solace when I wanted to be alone. Even when I was alone I never really felt it, always confident that she was there looking out for me.

And alone I was for much of my time with her. Often it was just the two of us, exploring her neighborhoods and making our way to friends’ houses. We caught busses together to work and walked home together after class, sat together by the water and cried together when nothing made sense. She was there for me when I needed inspiration and comforted me when I got lost, laughing with me at festivals and inviting me places when I needed an adventure. She was my best friend those five years, and as often as I relied on her she never made me feel bad for doing so. She knew I couldn’t stay forever, and that was okay because I appreciated her now, I choose to be with her now.

I got to take everything else with me when I left last year. My friends, my memories, my degree, even the jobs on my resume all travel well, fitting in a suitcase that I’ll tote with me for the rest of my life. But Seattle, Seattle can’t visit me for Thanksgiving. I can’t call her to catch up or grow with her by my side. I can’t watch how she changes on Facebook or rekindle our love on Skype. I get to keep everything from those years but her, the relationship we had trapped a plane ride away until all we’ll have left are memories.

Sure, I can go back to visit, stopping at all the places we felt something for each other before, but it won’t be the same, echoes of what we had only making the loss greater. I can go back and watch the sun set from my favorite tower or sit quietly by the photogenic fountain, even smell all my favorite smells and feel the salty wind on my face, but the feeling of contentment and belonging and bliss I used to get while walking towards the water will never be the same. It will still feel powerful, still be beautiful, but it will be infused with sadness because she is no longer mine. As she grows I’ll have to hear about it from our mutual friends, doing my best to be happy for her as she helps them like she helped me.

I headed back towards the train, walking quickly as I remembered all the things we’d had, unsure whether my feet would continue to carry me away or revolt and hurl me back towards the city I loved.

Due to m dalliance I missed the train I’d needed so I had to rush through airport security and run to my gate without putting on my shoes, carrying my loose laptop and coat along with my two bags and shoes. My pink socks stood out as I ran past the wall of windows without saying goodbye, barely making it to the far end of the terminal without dropping anything. I was the last person to board the plane, the flight attendant telling me I was ‘damn close’ to missing the flight and shaking her head as I shuffled past her, doing my best to smile as I crossed the threshold of the plane that would take me away.

I sat down in my seat and took a deep breath before they closed the door, doing my best to savor the crisp smell of Seattle’s air and apologize to her for again leaving in such a rush. I looked out the window and silently thanked Seattle for reminding me what we’d had, hoping she could hear me even from the plane. I promised her that even if I had missed my flight that moment alone with her at Pike’s would have been worth it.

Utah will always be my home, the place I was raised and will always come back to, the place I love unconditionally and will have in my life forever. But when I was leaving Seattle last weekend I said goodbye to the place that was my own, the place I spent five years becoming myself in. That weekend I said goodbye to my first love, my heart breaking more with every step away from her I took. I’ll be back for visits, I know, and maybe we’ll even find a way to have a relationship again, but when I left last year I broke something we can never get back.

I’ll always love her. But I let her go.