I hope you write not for the promise of bright lights, but because your story illuminates a corner of your soul. — Roshani Chokshi


you never really recover from being homesick, i think.

you can forget sometimes—the joy and terror of city living makes it easy to remain distracted—but all it takes is just the sound of a door closing, the smell of curry cooking from the apartment next to yours. then all at once you're there again: 16, wide-eyed, and home. there is food on the dining table downstairs, you can hear your brother singing to himself (off-key) in the bathroom. the world is wide and unknown, and so is your future; but you're home, home home home, and you know deep down that you're safe, loved, and watched over.

but then you breathe out. you're here again, alone in a city apartment. living higher above ground than you ever did as a kid. your tea is cold. the sky is already dark, and you still have dinner to make. in a fraction of a heartbeat, you wish for all the things that passed you by as you grew up. the early mornings before school. sunday morning coffee and stir-fry with oyster sauce. you wish that you hugged your parents longer, that you took a little bit more notice of your brother. and just like that, you're broken again.

you don't