One month. That’s it. Four weeks until the villa in Ibiza is officially mine. Ours. Whatever. It still doesn’t feel real.
At least, not in the romanticized way I thought it would. It doesn’t feel like “oh wow, we’re about to live the dream, sipping coffee on the terrace overlooking the sea.” No. It feels like a weight, like an incoming wave I can’t outrun. Because for every picture-perfect sunrise I’ve imagined, there’s a contractor who suddenly needs more money, a legal document I still don’t fully understand, and the creeping feeling that I might have made a mistake.
The reality is messier. The numbers don’t quite sit right anymore. Not because I wasn’t prepared, but because no one ever tells you how many hidden costs crawl out of the woodwork the moment you commit to buying a place. There’s always something. A tax I wasn’t expecting. A repair that somehow wasn’t mentioned before. An extra fee for something ridiculous like “administrative processing.” I’m convinced half of these fees are made up on the spot, just to see if I’ll notice.
Then there’s the mental weight of it. Ibiza is supposed to be an escape, but I find myself clinging to the familiarity of my old life more than I thought I would. Frankfurt was structured, predictable, efficient. Ibiza is… not. It’s a beautiful chaos, but a chaos nonetheless. And I’m voluntarily walking into it.
The conversations with my team in Frankfurt are getting weird. They don’t say it outright, but I can hear it between the lines—how long until he gets bored and comes back? How long before he realizes this is a terrible idea? I tell them everything’s fine, that I’ll still be just as involved, that I’ll be flying back often. And maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Who knows? I certainly don’t.
And then there’s my family. Half of them think I’ve lost my mind. The other half think I’m a genius. Both are wrong. My father keeps asking, “So when are you coming back?” as if this is a vacation. My mother just wants to know if I’ll have a proper guest room ready.
One month. Four weeks. The countdown has begun, and instead of feeling lighter, I feel like I’m carrying something heavy. Excitement and dread, mixed in a way I can’t separate. I keep telling myself it’s just pre-move nerves. It has to be, right?
Maybe once I’m standing in the villa, keys in hand, it’ll all click into place. Or maybe I’ll have a panic attack in the middle of an empty living room, wondering what the hell I’ve done.
Either way, the clock is ticking. And there’s no turning back now.