I was in Paris. I stood on a bridge, ate a croissant and drank coffee with a view of the Seine. I walked around Prague, listened to street musicians, caught snowflakes with my tongue in Vienna and kissed in Rome. It was all. Beautiful. Almost like in the movies.

But you know what I realized? The most romantic country is not a country. It is a state. It is not a place where everything is perfect, and you are beautiful and flawless. It is a place inside, where everything is inside out. Where your hair is not perfect, spontaneous laughter, ragged breathing. Where you can cry because someone just took your hand. Where you can fall asleep hugging a pillow because one phrase is spinning in your head: "I feel something again."

My most romantic country is an evening on the balcony, when the wind tangles your hair, and you drink wine from an ordinary glass. This is the moment when you walk barefoot around the apartment and hum your favorite song under your breath. This is when someone looks at you and does not say "you are beautiful", but says: "you are real." And you can not help but believe.

My romantic country is not geography. It is time. Time when everything coincides. When you understand that you can not hide your feelings. Where you can be silent together and it will be a dialogue. Where you do not need to be fake, to please, to fit in. Where being yourself is enough.

I am often told that I am strong. But in my country I am just a woman. The one who writes letters when there is not enough air. The one who wants to feel deeply. The one who opens her heart, even knowing that it can hurt.

That's why my most romantic country is the place where I am loved not for, but in spite of. Where I can be vulnerable. Where my eyes are loved when I laugh. Where my hands are needed. Where my silence is heard.