home - a short story

❝ you are the warmest home i will ever, ever find. ❞

home. it was once a couple of interconnected walls sheltered by a tiled roof, warmed by a flickering fireplace. a mantelpiece hovering above the roaring flames, decked in memories and souvenirs and picture frames radiating happiness. in one, i’m at disneyland, with a grin plastered onto my face that almost reaches my ears. in another, i’m dressed up as the little mermaid for halloween, with a candy basket perched on my arm. there are paper plate paintings hung up on the walls and fairy lights lining the ceiling. vintage armchairs are firmly situated in the middle of the living room, amongst old photo albums and journals. there are stairs leading up to who-knows-where. 

home. it’s morphed into a small apartment. there isn’t space left for a closet, so my clothes have found refuge on the ugly, carpeted floors. the walls are cracked by the corners, and the air-conditioning sometimes lets out alien-like noises. the floorboards aren’t nice either. there are some photo frames here and there, but there’s nothing special in them. old black-and-whites of audrey hepburn and ticket stubs from the drive-in cinema we used to go to. 

it smells like old books in here. maybe that’s because the place is filled to the brim with them. there are books lying around everywhere. there isn’t a single empty nook in my bedroom — i’ve got too many stories living inside of these four walls. i found a copy of breakfast at tiffany’s under my bed last night, blanketed in a layer of fine powder. i blew at it and swiped the remaining dust off of it with the edge of my palm and then, i gleamed at the wonderful, hardbound treasure. i remember unwrapping the glittering gift-wrap at christmas. don’t you remember the way my eyes lit up when i saw it? when i flipped it open and read the thoughtful note you had left inside of it for me? you told me that holly golightly had felt this inexplicable, delightful feeling while at tiffany’s. you told me that was what you felt like when you were in my arms. 

don’t you remember?

home. it’s this café i like. i spend more time there than anywhere else. it’s where i disconnect, but not in a necessarily bad manner. i isolate myself, peacefully. i plug in my headphones and the whole world suddenly goes still and then gradually falls away. it’s lovely. they have art pieces on the wall, too — they’re incredibly beautiful, but they’re all fake. it’s a café adorned with phony renoirs and monéts . . . it reminds me of falling in love. there are always couples in the dimly lit booths, with their eyes drinking up gallons of wonder. i love taking in the constant influx of coffee scent that floats around the space. there’s a little bell that rings whenever anyone comes in, and that high-pitched frequency has become a source of great comfort. if i’m lucky, there’ll be a guitarist strumming mellow tunes at the front. it’s the place where i write the best of my stories. it’s my physical muse. 

home. you could also say it’s that lamppost by fifth street. you know the one. it’s light is always fluctuating and it doesn’t really work properly. i’ve always seen it as sort of mysterious. it’s where i had my first kiss. my back was pressed into the horrible indentations of the metal but it wasn’t so bad. it was my first kiss. i didn’t really expect it to be wonderful, so to say. my friends had always told me that i should’ve saved all of my firsts for someone important — someone who was worth changing my life for. but i was a reckless teenager, my arms wrapped around you in a sorrowful embrace, your fingers playing with the belt loops of my jeans. it was wonderful, though. and whenever i step on the zebra crossing that leads to fifth street, my mind goes blank and then everything erupts like fireworks all at once. you were my new beginning, my new year’s day. our first kiss — i always replay it in my head like it’s one of those movie reels: it’s a little montage of the first special night we shared with each other. there are lots of advertisements taped onto it now, notices about missing pets and newly empty flats. but i don’t care about any of that shit. this lamppost is ours. it always will be. 

home. it was that bed and breakfast at the halfway point between my family and yours. our special snow-white cottage. stone walls, stone roof. parquet floors that we slid across in our socks, pretending to be a pair of figure skaters. your thumb outlining the curve of my lips. falling onto the floor in a frenzy of laughter, our hands pressed to our stomachs in an attempt to null the giggles that kept escaping our lips. there was an old couple there, who made us bacon and eggs, sausages and toast. you told me that looking at them made your heart flutter. you looked at them, and then squarely at me. your smile became contagious. “what a wonderful thing it is to be in love.” you said. “just look at them. they are still happy with each other after all these years. how incredible is that?” i only laughed. but . . . when you looked at me, did you see a future?

when you talked about that old couple, you were talking about us, weren’t you? it was your extremely indirect way of telling me that you loved me and that you’d have liked to grow old with me. i just didn’t know it at the time. i know now. 

home. your parents house was home, too. i liked the pictures of you with your gap-toothed smile and your chocolate stained cheeks. when i was at your house, it was like i was drowning in some sort of acidic nostalgia. i was drowning in your past. there were pictures of you with your date to senior prom. you hid them, but i found them tucked underneath all of your vinyls. they didn’t make me feel sad at all. you looked like a dream in that gown. green really brought out your eyes.

 you made me feel like the most amazing girl that night. we slept, with your tattered green day posters looking over us. my hand was at the back of your neck, my head was resting on your bobbing chest. i woke up to your paced breaths against my collarbone and i spent that entire morning staring up at your dull ceiling. was i in love with you?

home. 

it was a girl with hair that fell to her shoulders in waves. she had bright eyes — her windows — always yearning for adventure. she had a heart that ached to be filled. (our hearts synced, instead.) she had the softest hands, that always lingered near me. on my cheek, at my waist, pressed against the pulsing chambers of my heart. she liked to feel my heartbeat. she liked to know that i was alive, that i was real, and that i wasn’t just a figment of her imagination. her lips were the door to everything i had ever wished for. the sound of her voice was the song that never ceased put me in an unshakable trance. my words found solace in her. 

in you. 

home. you were my home.

when i went out on a search for you, i didn’t know what would happen when my eyes would find yours. i had found myself comforted inside of so many homes, so many places that made me feel safe. but i guess i wanted you. when i saw you lurking there, inside that restaurant that we used to go to together, i didn’t understand why i’d found your lips pressed shut. your eyes tightly closed. 

your new girlfriend ran up to you and kissed you. she smiled as she pulled back. i saw your eyes flicker towards me for a single, fragile moment as she stayed glued onto you. i swallowed down all of my sentences and turned away. 

i had locked myself out of my apartment before, more times than i could count on my fingers. but that sort of panic had never, ever broken my heart. your warmth still lingers in every walk of my life. i made you my own. i painted you in all my favorite colors and bedecked you in all of my memories. i filled you up with my crazy tales and had memorized every part of you so i’d never get lost. 

home. i'm still trying to find it.