For three years after Lyon, I was rushing around Europe, trying to find a place where it would be easy for me to breathe. I dreamed of belonging, but I felt like a stranger everywhere. Paris was oppressed by crowding, insane prices and eternal noise; I lived in a room of twelve meters, where even Brioche could not turn around. Barcelona offered sunshine, but the language remained foreign, and the warmth was superficial. My native Nantes pulled me back, but every return turned into a trap: everyone already knew who I was supposed to be. I've tried dozens of professions. I brewed vegan lattes in Montmartre, where the customers were screaming about the temperature of the milk. I cleaned the shelter for the dogs, getting ridiculous money, but falling asleep with a pure heart. I pedaled the courier through the stormy streets, hiding from the rain, and the Brioche was shaking in the basket. I even collected bouquets for the florist, creating beauty for other people's happy stories. But every time something was missing: the money for food and treatment for Brioche, the feeling that I was not playing someone else's role. In the winter of 2024, I took a cheap bus to Warsaw. I had a suitcase full of books, dog food, and absolutely no plan. Poland greeted me with snow, silence and an incredibly cozy feeling that no one here knows my name and it was freedom
