“I wanna go home”, she cried. “Home”, I thought.

I shouldered it all to come here, not for wealth or their pride, just to escape the ache in my heart.

I came here so that I can run away from that ominous feeling — Needing to fill that fucking hole in my heart. I came here to escape, from myself.

I hate that I was emotional on that airport. Naturally, I didn’t show it. I kept laughing, conceling my pain so that she doesn’t suffer. She kept crying, hoping she would convey something novel to me with every teardrop. But I knew it all.

He doesn’t keep well nowadays. But I’m a selfish man. I’m his DNA of course. I keep my ego and needs above everything else, and it will be that for the rest of my life.

She gets tired easily, she tells me. I always distract her from her fatigue by talking to her about random things. I wish I could bring up conversations about plants with her, about flowers. About old songs she likes. About how much he loves me.

I wish I could hold her shoulders, sit her down like I always do— and explain to her that I can’t live a monotonous life. I need to move, mentally, physically and emotionally in order to not kill myself. I need uncertainty.

I hate that I keep that need of mine, that sheer egotism of mine, above her pain— Above his needs. But it’s important— and necessary, so I do it regardless.

I think of them sometimes when I’m alone. I find myself swimming in an endless ocean of painful memories, but I won’t help myself by reminiscing about those. I often drive myself away from the thoughts to end it all—because I know she’s thinking about me in that specific moment.

I wish she could be here with me, so that I can wipe her countless tears and laugh at her because she also looks funny when she cries.

I yearn for pain. In that pain, I ask myself the question— what am I supposed to do with my heart?

I wish I left a piece of it back home. Home.