This Doesn't Feel Like Mine Anymore

 It’s 1:05 AM.

I’m in my bed. The one I grew up in.
Fairy lights are on.
“Lana del Ray” is playing softly in the background.
Everything is calm. Everything should feel safe.
But it doesn’t.

I’m home. But it doesn’t feel like home anymore.
Because somewhere along the way, I made my hostel room my real home.
That tiny space with the mess, the late-night chai, the stolen naps between classes.
The window I stared out of when I was sad.
The bed that heard everything I never said out loud.
The walls that knew me better than anyone else.

And now, here… in this room that’s supposed to be mine, I feel like a guest.
My bed doesn’t feel like mine.
The walls are quieter.
Even my reflection looks a little different in this mirror.

And then there’s the guilt.
My parents...God, they love me. They would do anything for me.
But I look at them and feel like a burden.
Like they’re already carrying so much, and here I am....showing up with my silence, my anxiety, my mess.

I want to feel at peace here.
I want to sink into my pillow and feel like I belong.
But my heart is stretched between places.
And no place feels fully mine anymore.

Sometimes, I think growing up isn’t just about getting older.
It’s about realizing that home isn’t always a place.
It’s a version of you. And when that version changes…
Everything else feels unfamiliar.