I’m homesick. This feeling is nothing new—the instinct to go home, but not to my home. Maybe it’s just the fleeting human impulse to seek shelter, to endlessly search for comfort even if you’ve never really known what it was to begin with. I’ve been hit enough to know that pain is not a home, but it felt like all I deserved. Over time, I started to believe it. Some old base instinct clings to the possibility of something better—the myth of it alive inside me, the way a story sinks into bones and becomes as real as the ache in your ribs when you watch two lovers kiss.
