You should've waited for me to rent an apartment.

Home.

I associated the word home with your name. I envisioned doors with your arms that I used to hold when the world is shaking from its core and I'm falling on crevices filled with eternal emptiness. I see your eyes as windows that comfort me in silence, reflecting a soft lullaby that soothes my entire being especially when the nights are louder and the moon burns me (I appreciated the stars there). I imagined that your shoulders were my walls that I can lay my head on when my heart is tired, to cry and cower without the fear of my soul being seen. I've always been intimidated by your height, but I knew it was my roof, hiding me from the relentless rain and the menacing thunders that I desperately run away from. Your voice was my stairs that helped me rise, a place to break down and sit once in a while. I'd listen to it forever if I can.

Home is what I'd call you in secrecy. Your name I'm whispering under the sheets when the phantom of my insecurities lays by my side uninvited. The echo reverberates on each corner calming my weakening body and appeasing my anxious mind. I would always come back to your doorstep when the restlessness becomes unbearable and my back is hurting after a day of carrying myself. Your mat saying "welcome" is my favorite thing, because there I know I belong. I would love to forever drink the coffee, unfailingly ready at the top of that wooden table, and feel its warmth when winter wants to come inside. You already fastened the lock.

I believed you were home because I've never felt the need to hesitate whenever I shout. I also sang with an incorrect tune and laughed without remark. I spoke with my voice not afraid that it would crack. And I stood there, in the middle of a crowd of yous, no shadow of embarrassment peeking through, no scrutinizing eyes, just a pair of pearls looking – really looking – at me.

What I never knew is that you can't make homes out of people. When you are kicked out you would remember that feeling even in your dreams. It was as if you were plucked from your comfortable bed, thrown into a pond at the wee hours of the night, soaking wet and floating with your ears hearing your non-beating heart and your eyes won't cry no matter how hard you stab it. The stars that you once admired would laugh at your pitiful state. It was as if you cannot die, you're locked up inside a claustrophobic cage, with small holes just enough for the water to enter, and you're drowning repeatedly. The locks you once adored would keep you from trying. You'd feel cold and ask what else is there if there aren't even crickets to join your cries?

Home is what he was. And me? I'm here, rereading the signs outside his gate (it looks so tall now). I come back when the familiar path greets me and I still stare. I'm still hoping, still wanting to come inside, even just for one last time.