a girl and her pen

31.03.25

some days, home is the quiet hum of the fridge at 2 a.m., the whisper of the fan tracing slow circles in the dark. other days, it is something softer, less certain—a feeling that lingers but never quite settles.

i used to think home had walls, a door, a place to return to. now i know it is something i carry—stitched into the fabric of my skin, curled up in the spaces between my ribs. it is the warmth of familiar things: the scent of childhood buried in spices i cannot recreate, the comfort of words i do not have to translate, the silence that does not ask me to be anyone but myself.

but sometimes, home is missing. it is the ache of rooms i no longer enter. the absence of voices i will never hear again. the feeling of belonging everywhere and nowhere all at once.

so i am learning. learning that home is not a place i left behind but something i am still building. one moment, one breath, one heartbeat at a time.