Home is waking to cherry blossoms floating in my room and tea with Marigold and Astrid. Home is being surrounded by books so old the pages are stiff, and the sweetest smile peering out from behind them. Home is the smell of salt and sea, and a laugh so joyful it always brings out my own. Home is the softest touch over my body, safety behind what others fear. And home is arguing with a stupid icy bastard across a dinner table and pelting him with bread rolls, as my friends—my family—laugh with me.
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