I leave for Spain in the morning. And I'm realizing, for the first time, my heart is not going with me. I have loved traveling since I was a kid, loved experiencing different cultures, trying new foods, and every time I left, everywhere I went, my heart was with me. Not this time. Not because I didn't want to, but because it was taken. It wasn't pried from my chest with maliciousness but rather caressed with a gentleness so soft, I didn’t even notice it was gone. I'm not really sure of when it was taken, but I do remember a moment when I began to feel lighter, less afraid. I'm still afraid, still terrified of what's next. Doubts still creep in, old fears make their presence known, depression sits on its cracked throne and smiles an uneasy smile pretending to know something. I flip him a shaky middle finger and try to put on a brave face, try to act like I'm not scared of him, try to let this feeling I've felt before guide me. Ah yes, this feeling I’ve felt before, love. I've never run from it; on the contrary, I have always leaned into it, but upon further inspection I have always done so with some walls up, with armor on, with my shield at the ready. I've never been afraid to love. I have been afraid to be loved. But even with all my defenses, all my walls and armor, all my emotions at the ready, my heart was still stolen. She stole it. Not like a thief in the night, not like some barbarian who cut down my defenses. No, she, bathed in an aura of green, walked right up to the gates and offered me…bubble wrap. And before I knew what had happened, it was gone. Taken from me in broad daylight while all my guards watched. So I will go; I will board a plane bound for Spain without my heart, and for the first time I know it's safe. It’s bubble wrapped and taken care of.