The first home I knew was my grandma’s, where everything felt larger than life. For the first five golden years
I belonged to its warmth, the air alive with people who loved me.
Where I thought joy lived inside walls. And it would stay.
Then came the family home. Just the small family of us— mom, dad and me. It would have been enough. Until love split into two addresses. The house remained, but the word “home” was buried in the ground.
Next was the apartment my mom rented— Spacious space with big rooms, but it echoed with something missing. Loneliness filled the corners, and the rooms carried silence, and I waited for it to feel like home But it never did.
Later she bought a house. The wall stood tall and the keys worked, but the excitement I expected never showed up. I realized then— it wasn’t walls or dood that makes a home. It’s the people.
For a while, it was a friend. She was everything— familiar, safe and close. Until she wasn’t. She was special, then nothing. And the home I built in her collapsed without warning.
After her, I tried to make myself my own home. But what I found was hollow. Rooms with locked doors. Corridors I can’t find my way through. Most days, I misplaced the key. I live inside myself, but still feel homeless, wandering through memories of every house I used to belong to.
They say you can always go home. But I can’t… anymore. I can only visit ghosts. And sometimes, the ghost is me too.