"When Home Was You" - By Astha Mishra of B.Sc ZCFS First Year
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| Picture Credit: Astha Mishra |
Things have changed since you left that afternoon. Your suitcase still sits in my room, untouched, unmoved, as if it’s waiting for you to return. There is space for you here. There will always be space for you. But you are not here. And somehow, that space feels heavier than anything I have ever carried.
I look in the mirror, and the reflection staring back at me is unfamiliar. It has my eyes, my face, but it isn’t me. Not the me you knew. Because without you, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.
They are renovating your house. No, not your house. A house. Because whatever they are building, it is not home. It doesn’t smell like you. It doesn’t echo your voice. It doesn’t feel like the place I once belonged.
We had plans, you and I, plans that never came true. You said we would go to that temple together, that you would watch my graduation, that one day you would sit back while I cooked for you. And I did. I learned to cook for you. I wanted to see the pride in your eyes when you took the first bite. But you never got to taste it. Was I too late, or did time just move too fast? I wanted to give back, to make you proud, to show you that I could take care of you the way you always took care of me. But the moment I was ready, you were already gone.
I used to hold your hand when we walked outside, feeling like nothing in the world could touch me. I remember the way your grip was firm yet gentle, the way you shielded me from the rush of people, the way you always made sure I was safe. And now, I walk alone. The same roads that once felt familiar now feel foreign. The same world that once felt safe now feels too big, too empty. I am unprotected, exposed. I am alone.
It is not the days that haunt me. We have lived apart before. But when the sun goes down, when I have spent all my strength trying to be okay, when there is nothing left to distract me, that is when it hurts the most. That is when I crave your voice, your presence, your warmth. I come home expecting to hear you call my name, to see you sitting in your favorite chair, to listen to the stories I once took for granted. But I come back to silence. To a house that feels colder than it ever did before. To walls that do not echo the laughter we shared. To an empty building that once had a heart.
For a whole month, I waited. Waited for you to come back, to take your place, to tell me I was being dramatic, to scold me when I got things wrong, to tell me you were proud when I got things right. But you never did. I do not know how to accept that.
People say I miss you for selfish reasons. Maybe they are right. Maybe I do. Maybe I miss you because you were all I needed growing up. Because you were the only one who truly understood me. Because no matter how hard life got, I always knew I had you. And now I do not.
Some days, it does not feel real. Like you are just away for a while, like you will be back soon. I catch myself reaching for my phone to call you. I hear a joke and think, I have to tell you this, only to remember. You will not pick up. You will not laugh with me. You will not come back. And yet, I still hope. Hope for a miracle that will never come.
I have no regrets. I told you how much I loved you, how much I admired you. But what I do regret, what shatters me every single day, is that there was so much more left to say. So much more you were supposed to hear. I am exhausted, and for the first time in my life, I do not know where to go.
But I do know this, you never really left.
You are in the way I fold the blankets just like you did. In the old songs I hum without realizing. In the stories I will tell as the happiest times of my life. In the way I still look for you in a crowded room, knowing you will not be there, but feeling you in the air around me.
Home was never just a place, home was you. And maybe, just maybe, as long as I carry you in me, I will always find my way back.
