I sit at the cafe and I observe you working. Your hair is tied up in a loose bun and you've got trendy reading glasses on as you sit alone at a 4 person table. Spread out in front of you, there's a MacBook, some textbooks, and papers that look like they could use shuffling.
I'm trying to focus on work of my own, but sometimes out of the corner of my eye I see you bite your pen and your left foot is tucked under your right leg, and your right foot is tapping softly on the floor.
I'm wondering what you're studying so hard for.
If you've always bit your pen and shook with nerves and curled up into yourself.
If you're as scared of home as I am because you don't know what "home" really is.
You look up from your work and catch me looking before I can avert my eyes.
In that instant I see it.
You've made your home in other people too. People that didn't want share it with you. People that had their own home and didn't invite you in. People that saw you with your hair down and didn't appreciate how rare a sight that was.
I wish I could walk up and tell you that home is yourself. That they didn't love themselves and that's why they could never love you. That really, no matter how hard it is to believe, the truth is that there's nothing wrong with you. That you're perfectly imperfect just the way you are.
I don't walk over to you and I don't say any of these things,
because I'm just