“We need to go to my village in Montenegro,” my new and only friend, Darko, says casually to me. “You need to reconnect with your heritage, and plus,” he takes a puff of his cigarette, “it’s time you tried some real homemade Rakija.”
“I’m lonely here,” I say to my dad on the phone while eating a cold ćevapi. It’s been a couple of weeks, and the loneliness
I need to get some friends, I thought to myself while lying on the couch, my eyes shifting between watching my brother stretch and the television screen. How does he get his body to bend like that? Is that even normal?
“You wanna go out and try to make some friends with me?” I ask desperately.
I put my bags down, taking a minute to relieve the stress of feeling like I was in a scene of Taken. Anyone could imagine having my anxiety; my dad was no Liam Neeson, he just learned how to text. I didn’t stand a chance in that taxi.
After finishing university, I didn’t really know what to do. I was never one of those people who would say in grade four they wanted to become a teacher, and then ten years down the road, they’re sitting in a classroom, watching children pick their noses and take naps.
