Tall green streetlamps gleam upon the ancient bricks, metal gates clatter as the metro closes for the evening, young couples chatter away in street corner cafés — my final night in Paris.

The past four days of my stay had come and gone, so quickly almost as if each day had tried to spite me; Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and of course, Sunday. I had just arrived, and already, it was time to go. I had developed a new identity here, with new ideas, routines, and rituals. I spent three nights in the same way, sitting: I watched [as] the inebriated Parisians went by, as the lovers held hands, as the young children chased their balls down the narrow streets. I watched as the city fell asleep. Here I was, four days later, on the eve of my departure, trying to fit as much of Paris as I could into the few hours I had left, just to make sure I was not cheating myself, to make sure I spent as much time wandering the streets as I possibly could. I knew that in exactly two days, I would be far away, wandering the streets of another city, a city I could no longer call home. I felt as though I would be cheating on my newfound love — I did not want to go. I already missed Paris: I already felt displaced, I was not even gone yet, and I already wanted to return. For the entire day, I tried to make my peace, so that when I left I would not be as hurt. I walked around and said my goodbyes, au revoir boulangerie, au revoir St. Michel, au revoir Paris. I knew that this would not work, and that though this was just a city — a tiny little town — it would take some time to recover, and that I would have to be away from Paris for far too long.

I walked around a little more as the hours tapered, and I knew I would have to return to my hotel. I found myself near the Pont Neuf. I could see swarms of people from blocks away. The bridge was filled with young friends, old married couples, fathers and sons, musicians sitting on the edge of the bridge with their guitar cases suggestively left open for the passing tourists to leave a euro or two. I got a little closer and studied them, and I saw their faces. I saw their smiles, the smiles that said that they knew, that they knew they lived in Paris. They all seemed to know that they lived in the greatest city on the planet — the capital of human life, the capital of love, of manmade beauty, of food, of culture, the capital of human interaction, where eye contact is quotidian. They seemed to know not to take the city for granted, that what they had was special, that they lived in Paris. I knew too, that no matter what I did, I would always miss Paris; that though I lived elsewhere, Paris was now my home, just as it was my father’s and my grandfather’s, who could find solace only in Paris, and that no matter where they lived, Paris was where they belonged. I knew that Paris was the city I would never stop missing.

Mr. Aciman is a junior at Horace Mann School.