I have a home. And I love it so dearly. But the feeling of being home is different this time around. Being with my parents again, while fantastic, affordable, and convenient is my home of a past life, it seems. 

I need something of my own, me alone, to call home. 

Not that being alone is what I necessarily want. At all, really. I love coming back to a place filled with voices or light arguments, people you share the responsibilities of a house with, and also, a fridge full of food. But I think I need to live alone. At least once. 

At least for a little while.