Place A is the original home. It's filled with memories, both painful and happy. I was born there and have lived there for around 96.3% of my life. It's also where most of my family and friends live. It's the country to which I must return in three months. But is Place A home? It hasn't felt like home lately, with all the stress and social control. I still miss it.
Place B is dead. It's where I made my happiest memories, found calmness and independence, and experienced big changes in my life. I lived there for around 2%, and although it's not home anymore, for those 2% of my life it was. I have never been more certain that a place was really my home, before or since. But none of my friends live there anymore, and there's nothing left for me there.
Place C is where I am now. It's a place of independence, but also of great loneliness. Except for runners, people here look away on the streets when you greet them with a nod. I don't fit in, but I am independent. I am learning a lot and training harder than ever before. I am improving. But it's not home.
I miss home, but I'm not sure if I have one.
I need a hug. Not a superficial hug that lasts two seconds, like the lift of the plam that runners give each other while running next to a river in Place C, but a deep hug like the ones my mum gave me when I broke down in tears, letting them run freely on her jumper while I stood bent over, hiding my face in her shoulder. I want the kind of hug that a lover gives you, even if you know they're not right for you, that makes you feel as if you're drowning and can barely breathe through a small hole in the bend of the elbow with the biceps covering your mouth. The kind of hug where two people melt into each other and you can't tell whose arm is whose.
Maybe home is a hug waiting to be experienced.
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