I’m travelling right now, and am sitting in a space that I used to share with my ex-boyfriend. It’s his apartment, and he isn’t here. He’s staying at his current girlfriend’s apartment.
I like the space, but the vacuum of his absence demarcates how this is no longer my home. It’s a place-in-waiting, even as my cats are here and the furniture and surroundings, mine.
The discomfort is niggling, insistent, rather than pronounced or tangible in some way. It’s a low grade hum: just loud enough to be unsettling.
I’m looking forward to be going back — although not to “home,” which for the time being does not exist.