My memory of visiting Chichén Itzá carries a quiet sting now. I traveled there alone, without a companion beside me on the flight. Before boarding the bus that would take us to the ruins, the tour operator took photos of the guests—a strange attempt at capturing something fleeting. My photo was a clumsy, amateur effort: a grainy selfie, superimposed on the background of the temple complex. The image felt as absurd as I felt, standing there alone for a portrait no one would care to see. How many times have I found myself feeling foolish doing things alone that others do together?

It was supposed to be a vacation. I’d left my job as a bagel baker back home for this—a brief escape. Yet, the solitude weighed heavier than I anticipated. Traveling alone, I couldn’t shake the awkwardness that clung to every moment. But I’d earned this break. I’d told myself I needed it. There was a vague hope, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I might meet someone along the way. Yet the vagueness itself betrayed the idea, and the hope faded as soon as it appeared.

I drifted through the trip like an actor in a silent film—some half-baked version of Buster Keaton, stumbling through a scene. I mimed my way through awkward exchanges in broken Spanish, ordering fish tacos and a “cerveza” with all the grace of an inept mime, pretending to fit into a script that wasn’t mine. A useless romantic, alone in a place that wasn’t made for solitude.

On the tour of the ruins, I lingered at the back, trailing behind the group. The guide’s words washed over me, unheeded, while the towering stone temples held my attention. They spoke their own language—a language of silence and decay, far more compelling than the rehearsed speech of a tour guide. The crowd seemed to blur into nothing, leaving only me and the ancient stones under a darkening sky. For a moment, I could almost believe I was the first to discover them, a solitary archaeologist stumbling upon a lost civilization.

When the tour ended, the group was herded off to the next stop, a cenote. Before leaving, I bought a small clay whistle shaped like a turtle from a vendor. He played it beautifully for me when I bought it, but no matter how hard I tried, I could never recreate the sound. It was as if the whistle held a magic that only he could summon—something ancient that slipped through my fingers.

At the cenote, we descended the worn stone steps to the platform above the water. Some of the others swam, and I joined them, diving into the cool water. Yet even then, surrounded by the sound of laughter and splashing, I felt the quiet persistence of my own aloneness. The water rippled gently around me, indifferent.

I surfaced, but the silence beneath followed me into the light.