by Zhander P’ng
My very last morning in this city arrives wrapped in a quiet peace I didn’t realize I’d crave so deeply. Last night, after handing Naomi those final bags—my real goodbye, tucked in bubble wrap and gratitude—my body let go.
Fever crept in like a soft warning: Rest, Xander. You’ve been carrying more than suitcases. I felt the dehydration, the ache, the buzzing anxiety that I might board tomorrow’s flight sick. Yet the ibuprofen worked its gentle magic, and sunrise met me steadier, clear enough to recognize what actually happened:
The fever wasn’t punishment; it was release. All that stored tension—each memory, each unfinished farewell—burned itself out. I woke lighter, surprised by calm instead of panic. Even my luggage mirrored the shift: 30 kilograms on the dot, proof I kept exactly what I needed and nothing more.
I’m oddly proud of that number—proud, too, that I came to this famously gay paradise and leave surrounded by the fierce grace of six extraordinary women: Marcia, Isabelle, Naomi, Sophie, Rachel, and Carla. Six different mirrors, six different teachings, each reminding me how expansive love can be.
Yesterday’s chance coffee with Carla, showed me another mirror in Jacob. I recognized my younger self in his restlessness and unhealed pain—proof that unaddressed wounds always catch up. I pray he learns before life strips him bare; I know the mercy embedded in losing everything and starting again. Empathy, not judgment, is the only honest response: one soul at a time, one kind witness at a time.
Underneath all that reflection sits an excited hum: the life I’m building with Silvan, the future children, the simple, good-enough rhythm I crave. I don’t need perfection—just truth, humor, and the courage to do this next chapter honestly. And right now, in this Starbucks chair that takes up more space than I thought I deserved, I’m letting the fullness sink in.
Planning matters, yes, but worrying does not. I’ve planned; now I get to arrive—open-palmed, present, trusting the universe to meet me where I stand.
I leave Puerto Vallarta not angry at the nightclubs I skipped or the hookups I never chased. I leave full of the kind of love that doesn’t demand spectacle. Fever as teacher, goodbyes as medicine, peace as proof. I keep whispering thank you, and the city echoes it back.
So blessed, so blessed, so blessed
