Moving (Pt.9)

After moving my luggage to the girl’s place, I hadn’t stopped scrolling on my phone in the days that followed.

RedNote kept pushing me rental listings, and I couldn’t help clicking in. Almost every post made me regret that I’d acted too hastily in making my decision.

The girl’s rental post had already been taken down. But the fact that we hadn’t signed the contract felt like God’s answer to me—don’t be so naïve to think I could evangelize on my own whim.

On June 15th, I couldn’t help messaging the girl, asking whether the room door came with a lock.

On June 17th, I asked her to check whether the mattress and wardrobe were in good condition, and I confirmed with her whether the current tenant would vacate before the 30th, and whether the place would be cleaned by then.

Earlier she had told me that the tenant was away traveling, and would be back to move out before the 30th.

But this time she told me she wasn’t comfortable entering the room, because the tenant was “still there”; he wouldn’t leave early, but only on the very last day. After he left, she would call a cleaner to tidy up the apartment.

I went, “Then I’ll come check the apartment on June 30th. If everything’s fine, we can sign the contract.”.

“Let’s see how it goes. He’s moving on the 30th. If he doesn’t, I’ll call the police. And cleaning will only happen after he moves.”

The unease I had long felt finally crystallized into a very tangible risk.

Waiting until the 30th to check the apartment would already be a gamble, and there was no way I could just “see how it goes” then. If the tenant moved out late in the evening, cleaning wouldn’t happen until the next day. And it was clear from the landlord’s attitude that she wouldn’t give me any flexibility on timing.

That apartment itself wasn’t worth such a risk.
And was that girl really worth it?

So I went back online to search for housing again, and found that the girl had re-listed her rental post.

I noticed a sublet from an international student—the furniture setup was unusually good, very suitable for working. The place was new, the room clean and bright, and available immediately, with only a six-month lease.

That afternoon I went to see it. The location was in Nou Barris, relatively quiet, though the room faced the street, and the neighborhood density was a bit high. There seemed to be especially many Indians around. Two international students, a male and a female, were in the living room watching TV when I arrived. Since the common space had air conditioning, they said they spent most of their time there—talking, playing music, watching shows with the sound on—things I’d likely hear from my room.

I immediately noticed that the girl who was subletting didn’t vibe with those two. They clearly formed a clique of their own, and didn’t seem to care much about others.
I sensed that she wasn’t acting timid because she was desperate to sublet and needed a favor—she was genuinely candid, listing the pros and cons of the living situation without hiding anything. Still, her anxiety showed through.

But she denied that her urgent need to move was related to her roommates.

Back home, I carefully weighed the pros and cons of both apartments. Neither was ideal, but it was obvious that the new place I’d seen that afternoon was more reliable and offered a better living environment.

I kept browsing more listings, but none compared to the one I had just seen.
After chatting with the student about lease details and finding nothing wrong, I still hesitated. But by evening, I’d lost confidence—afraid that if I didn’t decide soon, someone else would take it.

At that very moment, the first girl sent me several messages on WhatsApp, saying that since it was still early before month’s end, it was fine if the rental didn’t work out—I could always look for other places.

In fact, I had already read all of her messages in the notification preview, but I hadn’t opened WhatsApp to reply.
When I finally opened the app a while later, I saw that she had deleted everything.
I didn’t reply. It was late into the night.

Unknowingly, I had slipped back into stress-induced insomnia—dissociating, endlessly scrolling on my phone until 3 a.m. My body was drained, my eyes burning to blindness, yet I couldn’t stop.

When I finally put my phone down, I felt like I was nothing at all.

If I really were a vessel of God, then the flood of meaningless information on social media had already smashed me into pieces.

The next morning, I woke at 8. I opened WhatsApp and asked the girl what she had sent yesterday, as if I didn’t know, and told her that I was definitely moving in on the 30th.

“No, yesterday my friend asked me out, I sent it to the wrong person.” She replied quickly.

That one lie made it clear—I could never rent her place.

Then she followed with a long explanation, saying that my request to “inspect the apartment before signing the contract” wasn’t practical. Many details, she insisted, could only be confirmed on the 30th itself.

Her meaning was obvious: she wanted me to sign the contract before seeing the place, risking uncertainty over the exact move-in.

I didn’t want to reply. The situation was already clear.

Immediately after, I went back to RedNote and kept browsing rental posts.

One photo caught my attention: the room was filled with light, with a huge half-wall window opening to lush greenery. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, making the space feel almost ethereal. Against the window wall was a single bed. On one side stood a wooden wardrobe, on the other a wall covered in pale brick-pattern wallpaper. By the door were two drawer chests—dark wood combined with white.

It looked too good to be real, like a dream. The post wasn’t brand new, yet somehow I’d never come across it before.

I messaged the poster immediately, asking if I could move in within June. I also messaged a few other listings, then fell back into a heavy sleep.

When I struggled awake near noon, the poster had replied, confirming I could move in on the 30th, as the current tenant’s flight is on the same day. The rent was far below my budget cap. He added me on WeChat and pulled the current tenant into a group chat. But the tenant said nobody was home today—I’d have to view the room tomorrow instead.

So we scheduled 9 a.m. the next morning. The address was again in Nou Barris.
Meanwhile, the girl from yesterday also replied.

In a voice message, she kept circling back to confirm whether my writing work required absolute quiet. From her tone I could tell it wasn’t prudence but embarrassment.

I thought: in a city like Barcelona, it’s hard to find true quiet—especially with roommates. As long as I shut my door and put on headphones, I should be fine. That’s what I thought, and what I told her.

And since this room was available immediately, I wanted to move quickly, to reset my life and work rhythm. Searching had exhausted me.

But she never replied with any lease details.

I kept frantically scrolling Rednote, DMing landlords, comparing pros and cons.

By evening, she finally messaged again: she had spoken with her two roommates. They worried about disturbing me in the future, and refused.

“I really wanted to rent to you, but my roommates don’t agree… sorry.”
“It’s okay. Thank you.”

That night, I also told the first girl that her place was too risky, that I’d be looking elsewhere, and would collect my luggage later. She agreed.

My soul felt as homeless as my body, drifting. I sat on the bed, numbly scrolling on my phone.

At this point, my struggle was no longer just insomnia or a loss of self-worth.

I began doubting my calling again. After all, God had never told me directly that writing was my calling. How dare I keep on this path? Was I just deceiving myself?

But I also knew—I had always been compelled to write.

Whenever the environment grew more complex, I would start “adapting” to the world. God’s presence would feel distant, even if I rationally knew He was still there.

If writing really were my calling, did that mean the “spiritual purity” of my space had to be this high?

…God never told David to “become a poet.” Yet in exile, he could not help but write psalms.
Didn’t Calvin also write Institutes of the Christian Religion in exile? And I have not even reached the point of exile, have I?

I tried to comfort myself: don’t catastrophize.

But inside, my turmoil was already pathological—like an addiction. I couldn’t write a single word.

Night slowly fell again.

I remembered a few months ago, before my fallout with Lida, when she too was searching for a place. She only found one at the last moment—and it was far beyond what she had hoped for.

She kept retelling the story as testimony of God’s love.

But for me now, it meant something else.

I admitted it—I felt jealousy.

“I’ve lived alone for so many years, and I could tell you countless miracles—all promises from the Lord.”
“I am extraordinary, and so is Mark. But the Lord’s great power brought us together, changed us both. I truly believe in Him.”
“I will become a great testimony of ‘the abnormal,’ my testimony will declare the glory of the Lord—the world will see the impossible made possible!”

Lida’s narcissistic declarations kept rolling through my mind— together with her wishes for success, for love, for wealth.

If someone could crown their self-image with God’s glory and grace—even lie in His name—yet still receive favor again and again, while someone who weeps for Christ and offers themselves up ends up without even a fitting dwelling… where could my faith go?

After these restless weeks, I understood—neither feelings nor reasoned choices could be trusted.

Only one question remained—

Would I take the circumstances arranged by God as the guide of faith,
or take the Lord’s promised words as the guidance of faith?