Home

I used to think home was somewhere you could find on a map, a place you’d settle into, walls and windows, four walls and a key, and a door to close. But then, I met you. And suddenly, I was wrong about everything. Home wasn't a place at all. It isn’t something you can touch, It’s not made of bricks or wood or the things I thought kept me safe. Home had a heartbeat, a voice that could calm the worst of me, a pair of eyes I wanted to drown in. It was the way you said my name, the quiet spaces where I never had to pretend, a familiar gaze that holds you when you don’t ask for it, the warmth that settles in my chest when you look at me like I'm something worth keeping. And that’s love, isn’t it? Not the fleeting kind, not the fairytale. But the kind that makes you realize you were wandering all this time just looking for a face, not a house to hide in. But love is also restless. It moves. It walks away, sometimes slowly, and you don’t realize until it’s too far to chase after. I didn’t know, I didn’t understand that home wasn't bricks or floors beneath my feet. It was her, the way she smiled like she knew something I’d never say out loud. I never realized it until I felt lost without you, Until I understood that home isn’t where I am anymore. It’s where you are. So now I know. Home isn’t where you go. It’s who you lose. And love, it seems, is learning to live without it.