I miss home—but

I miss home. I miss the mornings waking up to the clatter of dishes, the soft warmth of coffee drifting from the kitchen. I miss the dusty windows, the shelves untouched, and the laughter of cousins filling a Sunday afternoon. I miss the crowded table, conversations spilling over, a chorus of voices that felt like home. I miss home But home isn't home anymore. Everything shifted the day I left that small room. Now, December feels like a duty, and summers, a brief escape. It’s hard to recognize a home that’s grown hollow, emptier still now that its pillars are gone. The light flickers, struggling to hold on, and the door I once rushed through feels heavy to open. Where there were once smiles to welcome me back, now dust gathers on floors, and the bedroom door stays closed. I still miss home, but more than that, I miss what home used to be.