I wanted to go home and the more I said it aloud, the more I realized I had no idea exactly where that was. And I felt bad about that, not because I felt sorry for myself, or because I considered myself homeless. Because I didn't. It was just a little bit ridiculous to know that I didn't really have anywhere to put my feet down at night. Or my head down. Or a place to shut my eyes that I would recognize warmly again in the morning.
So I just closed my eyes and picked a straw out of the hat. I felt like keeping my future at random made more sense that designing it. And that was weak. Very weak of me. But I did it anyway, and then I got in the car and I drove myself there. I had an old key but it worked. The inside of the building looked a little old and like it had been forgotten for many Decembers. But the lights were still working, so I dusted the table off and I made the bed. And I tried to remember all the nights we spent there together.
And just before I dozed off for good, I had that thing where you feel like you're falling and then you stop halfway down. And then I reminded myself that nostalgia wasn't as much of an ally as I once believed it to be. It was becoming more of a disease even. Something I resented.
So I put it to bed. And I smiled at the thought of finding a new place once and again.
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