The house creaks as the wind blows strongly outside. The day is moving slowly, and I am enjoying the silence of home. It has been awhile since I have come home to visit; particularly overnight. My room looks the same as I had left it- books on the bed, and dresser drawers still opened.
I slept in my own bed again last night, but it wasn't as I had imagined it to be. I wasn't comforted by the large pile of blankets towering on me, nor the cold of my cotton pillowcase.
I realize that my home is meant to be somewhere else, or so, with someone else. Although I love visiting home, surrounded by my family and the familiarity, I am in some sense discontent.
It is unusually hard to pin down what I am feeling, but I know I am dealing with the thought of moving out in my head. I can't see myself spending my nights here for a long period of time. When I am with Jim, I feel content- I feel at home. I belong with him, whispering goodnight into his ear night after night. I want to lay against his body, as his warmth guides me to sleep. I am beginning to see my new home with him, as a family of our own.
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