When we are young,
home is simple.
A familiar voice calling us for dinner.
A light left on.
A door we never knock on before entering.
Then life begins.
We leave.
For universities.
For careers.
For love.
For cities with unfamiliar skies.
And slowly,
we learn new addresses.
New routines.
New places to belong.
Yet every now and then,
something happens.
A difficult day.
A great achievement.
A moment too heavy or too beautiful to carry alone.
And without thinking,
we reach for the people
who knew us
before we became who we are now.
Perhaps that is why
home is such a difficult thing to define.
Because sometimes,
it is not the house we return to.
It is the feeling
of being known
without needing to explain ourselves.