In Milan, you get used to two things: heatwaves and unexpected insect roommates. It’s like the city never told them they weren’t invited, and now they just live here, casually buzzing into your apartment like they pay rent.

One day, I killed two flies. No drama, no mercy, just out of annoyance.

The next morning, I found a small bug at the metro. A woman wanted to crush it. I let a firm “no” out, and stopped her from doing so. I picked it up in a napkin, keeping it safe until I got out.

Ten minutes later, on my way out, another insect. Another rescue. A strange kind of redemption arc began to unfold; one bug at a time.

Months passed. I cried over the spider I killed by accident almost a year ago. Sobbed, actually. Like I had killed something sacred. Maybe I had.

The next day, I found a bug underground again. Trapped between steel and foot traffic. And again, I set it free.

I started to notice a pattern.

Every time I released a bug from the belly of the city (this dark, mechanical underground maze) something in me felt lighter.

Because maybe it was never just about the bugs.

Maybe it was about all the things I’ve kept trapped in my own system: the grief, the control, the clinging to people who weren’t meant to stay. Maybe I keep freeing insects because I’m still learning how to free myself.

And isn’t that the quiet spiritual metaphor of it all?

We kill things we don’t understand.

We trap what we don’t know how to handle.

And every once in a while, we choose instead to set it free, even when we don’t have to.

Sometimes I wonder if that tiny insect, dazed and dusty, ever turns around and thinks, thank you.

Or maybe it just flies off, back to where it belongs; the sky, the trees, anywhere but here.

And me?

I stay behind on the metro platform, quietly realizing: setting things free… is a very freeing thing to do.