I don’t blame him. Weare, after all, just friends. Or maybe friend-adjacent.
We both look out the window after that. Nothing pressing or heavy. There’s something nice about the shared silence—it’s filling the space between us in a cozy, enveloping way, even if what just happened was charged with tension and hums with something new and unexpected.
Something I can’t name. Not while I’m tired and the train is still moving.
5
MANUELA
We don’t talk muchfor the rest of the ride. Not because it’s awkward but because it’s comfortable in a way I haven’t felt in years. Every once in a while, Connor points out something out the window—the edge of the lake through the trees (there’s more than one throughout the journey), a church spire in the distance—and I nod, smiling, letting the silence stretch.
Changing trains in the Zurich central station is less chaotic than I imagined. The station is massive but organized, with high ceilings, warm lighting, and the kind of tile floors that make our suitcase wheels echo a little too loud, even with the hundreds of people moving about at the same time as us. We walk side by side without saying much, following the signs. Connor buys us both lattes from a kiosk without asking what I want—he guesses correctly, which is either impressive or terrifying or maybe says a lot about how predictable and bland I am.
Our connection train is smaller, slower, with wide windows and wooden accents that look almost movie-like. Nothing like the sleek European trains I saw all over the internet during my research. This feels more local, like a best-kept secret. By the time we are winding around the lake, the conversation picksback up, low and meandering and really nothing of substance. Music, the worst jobs we’ve ever had (mine: helping out at my small town’s library in the summers—dusty shelves and no A/C; his: a landscaping job up in the Hamptons where the owner of the house made him trim the grass with kitchen shears).
When we arrive at the tiny dock town Elle flagged in the itinerary, it’s clear this is the part where things get ridiculous and so very much like my friend.
“I thought the house was in the mountains,” I say as we step off the train. The air is crisp and cool, and it smells like winter is coming. There’s a faint smell of damp grass and bread, like there’s a bakery somewhere just out of sight. We are the only two people standing on the platform, the other bodies having retreated to their final destinations in hurried steps as the train pulled away from the station minutes ago.
“It is,” Connor says, pointing. “Up there, I think.”
He’s right. Perched high on a hill across the lake, tucked between green ridges, is what look like multiple converted chalets with massive windows and wraparound terraces. In the center, there’s a large building that looks similar to the houses—most likely the hotel part of the resort where we’re staying. There’s a long staircase leading down to the water and a little boat gliding towards us, the Swiss flag moving against the wind.
“Me estás jodiendo,” I murmur. “We’re taking that?”
“I believe the itinerary called it aboat transfer,” he says, reading off his phone. “Very casual, very normal.”
The boat looks like a cross between a water taxi and a Bond villain’s preferred method of transportation. We wait a few moments, and a chipper man with a large gap between his teeth and a striped shirt gets off. He smiles and nods, muttering, “Yes, yes” as he grabs our suitcases. I look at Connor, expecting some sort of confusion, but he’s helping the man load our luggage intothe boat, like this is, in fact, the method of transportation we should be taking.
The lake is impossibly blue. Not turquoise like the Caribbean, not murky like back home—just deep and cold-looking and still. My shoulders stay tight as the boat pulls away from the dock, the water slapping against the sides louder than it should be. I grip the edge of the seat and try to keep my expression neutral, even as every tilt makes my stomach tense.
I keep my gaze fixed toward the shoreline, where the trees are beginning to change color—patches of gold and orange breaking through the green, mirrored perfectly on the surface of the water. It looks like something out of a postcard, the kind of view that should make me relax. But I stay sitting too straight, palms flat on the seat, as if letting go would tempt the lake to swallow me whole.
The ride takes maybe fifteen minutes, long enough for the breeze to lift the edge of my hair and for Connor to tilt his head toward the sun and say, “Okay, fine. This part is kind of nice.”
At the far end of the arrival dock, a small stone platform leads to the base of a funicular track that looks like it was built into the hillside. Waiting for us is a teenage staff member in a crisp white polo, checking our names off a list on a tablet that is partially strapped to his chest.
“You’re with the Paul-Winslowe party?” he asks, already turning to unlock a gate that is built into the terrain. If I weren’t paying attention, I would never guess it was there.
“Apparently,” I say.
The funicular rattles up the hill slowly, like it’s trying not to disturb the trees. The incline is so steep that every few feet, my instinct is to grab on to the handrail inside the cab. The view, on the other hand, is spectacular. The peaks of the tallest mountains are lightly dusted with snow, and all the trees seem to be a different color, from deep yellows to golden oranges andfaint reds. It reminds me so much of fall in Tres Fuegos, of those crisp mornings when I used to walk to the café and the whole valley smelled like woodsmoke and fresh bread.
But this isn’t home.
And the ache sneaks up on me in a way I’m not prepared for.
I haven’t seen my family in over a year. Between the complications of immigration paperwork, the difficulty of traveling during the early stages of the Green Card process, and the constant shuffle of everyone’s schedules, two years have come and gone. My older sister sends me voice notes every day about random things that happen to her or to fill me in on the town’s latest gossip, and my parents try to video chat at least a few times a week, but it’s not the same. I miss them.
It’s not that New York isn’t exciting or full of potential. It’s just that sometimes the pace of it all feels like a blur I forgot to consent to. And now that I’m this close—so close—to permanent residency, it feels like I’m suspended in place. Waiting for something to change without being able to move.
And somehow, riding up a hill in a silent glass box in a foreign country makes all of that sharper. I’ve never felt farther from home. Or more like I’m supposed to pretend I’m fine.
Connor hasn’t said anything in a while. He’s watching the view, too, arms crossed over his chest, face unreadable. I let the silence stretch between us, too full of my own thoughts to try and fill it with niceties or small talk.
We pass a narrow clearing, and suddenly, the resort comes into view. That helps. It gives me something else to focus on.
Something unreal.
