No final hug.
No dinner.
No airport scene with friends chasing me down, apologizing, and saying, “Don’t go.”

Just me.
A suitcase.
And a quiet decision to leave.

When I left the U.S. in 2021, there was no drama.
There wasn’t even sadness.
Most people didn’t believe I was really leaving.
They said things like, “You always come back.”
And to be fair… I always had.

Until I didn’t.

I think what shocked me the most wasn’t the lack of goodbyes — it was how little I cared.
Not in a cold way.
Just… empty.
Flat.

Even my parents were in the States that summer, visiting.
I stayed a week with them.
Then packed my things, locked up the house, and flew back to Saudi.
No announcement.
No reflection.
No plan to use the return ticket.
And I didn't care.

What I felt wasn’t grief.
It was movement.

And it hit me:
The last time I felt like that was in 2000.
I had just graduated.
My parents had flown into Oregon for the summer.
And the next morning — without a word — I loaded my car to leave for California, hunting for work.

My dad caught me in the act.
Stopped me in the driveway and said, “Three months. If you don’t find a job, you come home and do what I say.”

I agreed.
And I left.
No long talk.
No sit-down moment.

And now, two decades later… I had done it again.
It’s like some part of me waits for everyone to get comfortable — then I bolt.
Like if I don’t let the door close loudly, no one can follow me through it.

It took me a while to admit what that really was.

Pride.
Not ego.
But something deeper — the kind of pride that says,
“They didn’t end it. I did.”

I didn’t want a movie ending.
I didn’t want anyone convincing me to stay.
Because I had already stayed through too much.

COVID didn’t just rearrange the world — it drained something out of me.
That city, that country, that life… it no longer felt like mine.

I didn’t want to wrestle with nostalgia.
I didn’t want to turn leaving into something dramatic.
I didn’t want to mourn a version of myself that was already gone.

I used to think closure came with noise.
A slam.
A scream.
A kiss at the terminal.
A last look over the shoulder.

But sometimes… peace doesn’t need permission.
Or applause.
Or clarity.

Sometimes peace just… goes with the flow.