I’m riding a bus through western Bohemia and I’m in mourning. Behind me is the carapace of my youth clinging to a cafe bench in Berlin. Ahead of me is raw pink adulthood.

I should have been at this point long ago. By all accounts I’m a man, complete with family, house and career, but until now I’ve never felt life’s stinging grit. I’ve never felt the wrenching of previous decisions. Now, blasting along an eastern autobahn in a coach bus filled with Czech christmas shopping refugees I finally realize what it means to be an adult.

I had been invited to Berlin from Prague to attend a company Christmas party. I’m only a part-time freelancer, and I have plenty of justification to politely turn down the invitation but I love the city. Each visit to the german capital leaves me like a shipwreck survivor laying parched and happy on the deck of a shrimping boat, shore bound. The bustle, the dim streetlights, and hipsters all make me feel like I am once again part of the world.

On the bike ride to the party I follow my friend and coworker through the cavernous streets of the city. The avenues are huge and convoluted. I only manage to get near enough behind him to pick out his red knit hat. I’m 6 and stubbornly trying to keep up with my older brother.

The party itself is fun, but unremarkable. We sit around a long table and talk of family and travel and christmas. The steak is excellent. A coworker leans over before desert arrives and strikes up a conversation. A giant kiddish grin cracks his face. He asks about life in Prague, my kids, the bus trip. He jokes about a dumb client. Then he asks if I’m planning to meet up with our former colleague, the one who for the past few months I’ve been casually chatting with. I say yes, I am, trying to remain flat in affect. In reality I’m smitten and denial is a cozy velvet curtain. He mentions that she was asking about me. “Ya he’s so cool, I can’t wait to see him!” He recounts. The curtain is ripped from its rings, and am glad that he’s already drunk. Terrible elation pulses through my head. I’m 17 all over again. I’m a horrible father. I’m careening into a brick wall.

The next morning as we scrape off the night’s residue with strong indian tea my phone winks a notification. Its message contains a time and address to meet with my brick wall. I’m excited and scared. We meet at a small cafe in Kreuzberg right on the canal. It’s cold, but sunny. We talk so effortlessly. Teenaged obsessions, knee-high socks and punk bands. IRC. Effortless. All my previous apprehensions seem silly. She mentions that she needs to do some christmas shopping, and I offer to accompany. We walk through streets bustling with bicycles and frantic shoppers. It’s like we’ve known each other since we were four. We walk on and the sun bounces from rooftops. As the sun sinks, I leave her at an U-Bahn station. It was great and we should do it again some time we agree. She hugs me. I put on a professional grade platonic smile and wish I could really hug her back. So easy right there on that sidewalk. Just to let it happen. Walking back to the cafe where I’d left my bike, I couldn’t decide if I should skip or lay down in front of a bus. I wanted to do both. The city held me in its graffitied palm and I was it’s child.

Back in Prague my wife attends the funeral of a neighbor, and feeds my children. Raw pink flesh. Harshly and beautifully real.

Sitting on this bus I realize that I now know the exact moment I became an adult. It was the moment when following my heart became impractical. The shell cracks and splits down the back. I fall to the ground.

Arriving back home, it’s dark, and I’m greeted only by the dog. She’s all tail and slobber.