Losing the person who is in every memory I have that feels real has left me feeling stranded. Like I’m in some sort of alternate reality, where things look almost exactly the same but are slightly off, and I’m the only one who notices. Like I’ve left for the airport and have that gut feeling I’m forgetting something, but can’t turn back or I will miss my flight. He was my home. The place I turned to for safety and comfort when the outside world was too much for me to take anymore. 

But even our homes can become someplace that is unfamiliar to us. Over the years, the home that I came to for peace from my own mind, took damage from the  environment around it, and the carelessness inside it. A place that felt so secure had become a place of instability and caution. There were cracks running through its foundation that no matter how many times I tried to repair them, would reopen with the slightest movement. Mold grew between the walls and although someone walking through couldn’t see it, the effects had me unable to breathe as I once did. An invisible toxin that was poisoning me slowly. Places that were once kept beautiful, were ripped out and replaced with a cheap imitation of what once was. Spots that the sun would shine and wrap me in warmth became cold and chilled me to the bone. 

I stayed because I could see the sanctuary it had been for me, and to start over, would be the ultimate loss. To lose something I had been waiting for my entire life, would be a heartbreak I’m still not sure if I’m strong enough to live through. 

But sometimes our homes become somewhere that can’t revert back to what they used to be. 

Sometimes we have to leave. 

Sometimes there isn’t time to gather all we would need to rebuild, to make it feel as close as it could to the original. 

Sometimes all you have time for is to get out. 

Sometimes we lose everything we ever wanted, and are left to wander, wondering if we will ever feel safe again.