The past few days, I’ve found myself reflecting deeply on the last three years of my life—how they’ve shaped me, transformed me, and continue to quietly guide the person I’m becoming. In my last blog, I explored how our experiences sculpt us, chisel away the unnecessary, and sometimes painfully, sometimes beautifully, bring out the core of who we are. That thought has lingered this entire week, following me like a shadow I’m learning to acknowledge.

Right now, I’m 30,000 feet in the sky, writing this mid-flight, as the darkness of the midnight sky presses against the window beside me. My thoughts, like always, begin to wander—to the past, to the people I’ve loved, and inevitably, to the idea of home.

What is home, really?

Is it a place—brick walls, familiar corners, the aroma of something cooking on a lazy Sunday? If so, then living away from that place for the last 3.5 years has been nothing short of a blessing. In this time, I’ve learned more than I ever did in the 22 years I spent sheltered within it. I’ve grown, crumbled, built myself back, and found grace in discomfort. I’m grateful for every lesson, no matter how harsh.

But… what if home isn’t a place?

What if home is a feeling? A fleeting sense of comfort that rests in moments or people. What if home is a conversation, a glance, a familiar silence that doesn’t ask you to be anything other than yourself?

If that’s true—if home is a feeling—then it’s transient. It shifts, transforms, and maybe, just like love, it evolves with time. Does that mean love and home are synonymous? I don’t know. But I do know I’ve spent nights chasing the answer to this very question.

I’m reminded of a lyric from Taylor Swift’s Florida!, where she sings:

“Little did you know,
Your home’s really only a town
You’re just a guest in…”

That line always hits me hard. Because maybe that’s it. Maybe home isn’t a location on a map. Maybe it’s a person. A presence. A connection. The life you begin to build with someone. And what a terrifyingly beautiful idea that is—to find your home in another human being.

It’s comforting, yes. But also unsettling. Because the deeper that comfort grows, the more unbearable the thought of losing it becomes. Once you feel it, you understand why love has sparked wars, inspired poetry, moved civilizations. It all begins so simply—perhaps with a childish crush, a shared playlist, a familiar phrase. Then, before you know it, their quirks become the reasons you fall in love all over again. The way they scrunch their nose when they laugh. The way they steady you in a crowded room. The way their eyes find you in silence, saying things their words never could.

And slowly, you become part of them. And they, part of you.

Then one random Sunday, you catch yourself daydreaming. A home with French windows, sunlight streaming across a kitchen island. The smell of pancakes and coffee filling the space. Someone you love, dancing lightly to his favourite music in an apron, completely unaware of how breathtakingly peaceful he looks. That’s when you realise: this isn’t just love—it’s home. In all its quiet, chaotic, overwhelming beauty.

But—this is not the end of the story.

Because I overthink. I overfeel. And the story doesn’t stop at the dream.

Instead, my mind drifts back. To the homes I built in the past. The fairy lights, the Polaroids now faded and covered in dust. The warm glows now turned cold. The record player that once played Presley? Silent. Forgotten. I see my demons peering back at me from memories I once called sacred. And yet, even as I hold on to the dream—of sunlight in the kitchen, of laughter echoing off quiet walls—I can’t help but feel the weight of memory tug at the edges. Love, I’ve learned, doesn’t always stay. Sometimes it slips through your fingers just when you think you’ve caught it. And sometimes, the same hands that once held you gently are the ones that let go.

So I find myself suspended between hope and hesitation. Between the comfort of dreaming and the ache of remembering. I trace the outlines of old homes I once found in people who now live only in footnotes of my story—beautiful, painful chapters I still read in quiet moments.

And then, as always, the spiral begins again.

And I wonder: will love stay this time? Is this the end of all the endings?

Or will I look back, years from now, at this dream I dared to call home, wearing a smile I no longer mean—haunted by the echo of what could have been?