This place still breathes inside me. I haven't left it, not really- the walls are thin, and I am still walking through the rooms, pressing my palms against a version of myself that never finished packing. It isn’t a memory; it’s a living map I can step back into just by closing my eyes.
I didn’t know it then, but I was learning how to exhale. I was learning how to simply exist, without the weight of translation, without the armor. It was a sanctuary of soft edges.
And now, home has lost its borders. It has become something fluid, something that stretches across the miles to find me. It’s no longer a set of coordinates on a map, but the places where I was held, where I was seen, where life felt wide enough to contain me. I carry it like a pulse under my skin—the ghost of a house, the permanent tether of having once been home.
