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You Find Where You Belong When You Least Expect It
Home has never been a place.
The taste of fall sat on the tip of my tongue. The air was cool, and the sharp wind cut through my sweater and pricked my skin. Only my left hand was warmed by a hot cup of cocoa.
My stomach rumbled as I walked down the cobbled streets of Mestre, Italy. The only other sound, the electric buzzing of wheels from a woman riding past me on her bike.
It hit me then, on my last day, while holding a bag of two chocolate-filled croissants, how much I would miss Italy. How much I would miss walking back home.
I hadn’t expected to settle into this country as easily as a newborn who’s lain in his mother’s arms for the first time. It wasn’t just natural and comfortable and easy — it always meant to be right.
My blood was intended to seep through the cracks in the street. My ears were shaped to fall in love with the natural music of these Italian neighborhoods. My heart was made to beat in this city.
Alongside hers.
I’d stayed with her for three weeks, and I was due to leave in less than twenty-four hours. Back to long-distance.
But maybe that’s what I don’t understand yet. Maybe I haven’t fully wrapped my head around the fact that the country and…
