belonging without belonging

I opened Spotify, and Banjaara found me first, as if fate still remembers the roads my heart never left. How strange this world is— centuries learned the art of forgetting, and I learned the curse of holding on to what was never promised to me. What I called mine was only a passing season, yet here I stand, faithful to a memory that never chose me. Perhaps this is the oldest sorrow— to recognize someone as home, and still live like a traveler in their absence.