She understood, with a pang of sorrow, that her house was not her home. Its walls, though familiar, never offered the embrace of belonging. She moved through its rooms like a stranger, the air thick with an invisible distance that kept her at bay. She was a refugee in her own life, carrying the weight of displacement not in physical miles but in the immeasurable distance between her soul and the place she yearned to call her own.

The ache of not belonging seeped into every corner of her existence. In a world where so many seemed to root themselves deeply in the soil of certainty and connection, she wandered, an unmoored spirit searching for an anchor. Even in the company of others, their laughter echoing around her, she felt the cold edge of solitude. It wasn’t just a place she sought; it was the elusive sensation of safety, of warmth that wrapped her in the comfort of acceptance.

Her heart longed for a sanctuary where she could shed her armor, a place where she wasn’t merely a visitor. She imagined a space suffused with light, where the air hummed with understanding, where the walls whispered love. A home wasn’t just bricks and mortar; it was a promise, a cradle for her dreams, a refuge from life’s storms.

Until she found that place, she carried the hope of it within her, like a lantern lighting her path. One day, she believed, she would no longer be a refugee. One day, she would stand in the warmth of a place and know, finally, that she belonged.

~Corina