I lived in Paris for 353 days this year, days made up of countless moments. And while the moments will never add up to a lifetime, it was a really good life. Until we meet again, Paris.

Twenty-four hours after the tickets had been released and all 90,000 were sold - and I was lucky enough to get my hands on four tickets to the match and a ticket to London from Paris via the Eurostar.

I always thought that I could do anything, even by myself, because I was good at doing things alone. It wasn’t until I moved to Paris that I realized…I had a lot of work to do on being alone.

I don’t want to be a thought, a prayer, or a number. I don’t even want to be a hero. I want universal background checks. I want gun control. I want to forget the routine.

For me, the first few weeks in Paris haven’t been about firsts. They’ve been about seconds - little moments, precious moments, moments you might miss if you hadn’t been waiting for them your whole life.

It’s a weird feeling, the idea that your dreams can pull you so far away from the home that you know, the places so familiar, and the people that you love. As my departure date approached, I faced an ominous number of last lunches, last adventures, and last goodbyes.