The House Isn’t There Anymor

When I was young,

there was a house I went to in my mind—

simple, quiet, soft with light,

where everything made sense.

I didn’t have to earn the warmth there.

It was just given.

Like air.

Like sunlight through the window

on a good day.

Like someone humming in another room

because they forgot they weren’t alone.

It wasn’t perfect—

but I belonged.

I’d go there without thinking,

like kids do.

Whenever the world was too loud,

or I felt too small,

that house would open itself to me.

No keys. No knocking.

Just… home.

But over time,

I stopped going.

Not all at once.

It started with little things—

too busy, too grown, too distracted.

I told myself I didn’t need it anymore.

I had new places to be,

new selves to wear.

Then one day,

I tried to go back—

and it wasn’t there.

No porch light waiting.

No familiar smell.

Just the outline

of something I used to love

pressed into the dark.

I stood there with memories

I couldn’t trust.

Did I dream it?

Did I break it?

Was it ever mine?

Now I carry the ache

like a phantom limb—

a home-shaped hollow

where safety used to live.

People say we grow,

we heal,

we move on—

but I think some losses

don’t work like that.

They don’t leave loudly.

They just stop returning your calls.

And the worst part isn’t the pain.

It’s the silence.

The not-hurting that still hurts.

The love that used to hum inside the walls

now swallowed by time.

There’s no door left to open.

No house.

No excuse.

Just the echo

of someone I used to be—

standing outside,

wishing they could go home.