Penny's World

Tag: home

  • Somewhere…It Begins Again

    I was in Class XI when I first fell in love.

    There was a rush when he looked at me. A spark, a flicker—something that felt infinite, even when it barely knew how to begin. But first love isn’t always gentle, and it certainly isn’t always right. Mine was neither. I thought it was everything, because back then, I didn’t know love could be more.

    Still, I stayed.
    Not because it was beautiful, but because I was afraid.

    Every time it felt like he might leave, my mind whispered:
    If not him, then who?

    That question tethered me to a story long after the plot had unraveled. It made me trade peace for presence. It convinced me that if I lost him, I’d never find love again. So I stayed—for six years—until one day I realised I had outgrown the girl who first asked that question.

    The Second Time

    Then came my second.

    My favourite almost.

    We were everything in slow motion. The kind of love that unspooled gently, like a Sunday morning in a city you’re learning to love. We had a rhythm, a potential, a softness that felt safe. But “almost” is a word that quietly breaks you. It tricks you into believing that “one day” will come—until it doesn’t.

    We almost made love stay.
    We almost had our shared playlists, our traditions, our peace.
    We almost built something lasting.

    “Distance, timing, breakdown, fighting
    Silence, the train runs off its tracks…”
    — Sad, Beautiful, Tragic (RED (Taylor’s Version), Taylor Swift)

    When it ended, it didn’t break me. Not all at once, at least. It was the kind of ending that settles in gradually, like fog over a city you once called home. There was no betrayal, no grand disaster. Just the quiet knowing that we couldn’t carry on. I was tired—of loving people who didn’t stay. Of waiting for something I couldn’t name. Of wondering why love never felt like enough.

    But if you ask me today, I’d still say we were close to something extraordinary.
    Close, but not close enough.

    This Time Might Be Different

    Now, maybe my third is here to stay.
    Maybe he isn’t.

    But for the first time, I won’t ask that old question again.
    If not you, then who?

    Because I’ve learned what that question does. It makes you stay longer than you should. It wraps fear in the illusion of loyalty. It makes you believe that love is scarce, when really—it’s abundant.

    Love shows up in many forms, in many seasons—
    Sometimes as a person, sometimes as a mirror.
    Sometimes as you, choosing yourself after years of forgetting how.

    I’ve learned that love isn’t just about who stays the longest.
    Sometimes, it’s who teaches you how to leave.
    Sometimes, it’s the quiet promise you make to yourself in the dark—
    That next time, you’ll choose you first.

    Love Is Home

    Love, as I’ve come to understand it, isn’t just the butterflies or the longing or the poetry. It’s not even just the safety or the stillness.

    Love is how we slowly become ourselves in someone else’s presence.
    It’s how we learn to rest.
    How we remember the softness we’d tucked away.

    Love is memory, timing, courage.
    And sometimes, love is the lesson.

    And maybe that’s why it blurs so closely into something else—home.

    In my last blog, I wrote about home not being a place, but a feeling. And the more I think about it, the more I realise—home and love are the same thing. They evolve. They shift. They slip through your fingers if you’re not paying attention, only to return in unexpected forms.

    A city. A friend. A morning spent in silence. Or someone’s laugh echoing through a kitchen full of light.

    What a terrifyingly beautiful thing it is to find your home in a person.
    To find love and belonging wrapped into the same soul.

    But even if they don’t stay, the love does.
    The lesson does.
    The knowing that you can love again—differently, deeply, more wisely.

    And So…

    You haven’t met all the people you’ll love.
    And you haven’t met all the people who will love you.

    So chin up, darling.
    Love might just be around the corner.

    And maybe this time—it won’t be tragic.
    Maybe it’ll just be home.

    Let me know your thoughts

  • When Home Wore Your Name…

    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?

    Let me know your thoughts