Every time I think of leaving, I ache with wanting to stay. I can’t make myself go. It’s like I’ve put down roots without even wanting to, and I don’t mean family roots because my aunt and uncle have always been here and I only barely remember my dad and his parents. I don’t mean friend roots because I don’t really have any of those. I mean the kind of roots that happen privately between you and a certain place. Like you come to a place, and instead of planting a flag and saying mine, the place plants something in you. The place claims you, it knows your name and the crooked corners of your
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