Driving Home for Christmas


I haven’t been to my childhood home in over two years. Tonight, I am writing this post from my childhood bed.

It is so odd, being home. It is as if I am split. I remember everything, but I remember nothing. It is all familiar, but nothing is familiar. It feels like home, but it does not.

My bedroom shelves are all empty now, my room turned into a dressing room for my mum. But my bedsheets are still the same pink checked. The carpet still has the stain from my nail polish remover, and a burn from my straighteners. The letter box flaps in a rhythm I remember, and yet I do not remember the rhythm of the steps as I walk down them, as I’ve done a thousand times before. The bottom step surprises me and I jar my knee by landing on it oddly. It smells the same, but it’s a smell that holds memories I cannot quite grasp.

I am home, but I barely recognise it. I wish I could remember the good that I know existed in this house.

I feel so lonely. I neglected all my school friends for the boy, and now the boy is gone and so are they. I’ve just messaged a few on Facebook, but I must seem like some crazy stalker now.

I am so, so lonely.


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