Coming home after three months away feels like stepping into a familiar world with a slightly different heart. There’s relief in returning- doors I don’t have to knock on, pillows that already know the shape of my head, and walls that don’t just hold space, but hold history. And yet, there’s a quiet ache threaded through it all. Because while I’m back home, a part of me is still somewhere between the RH corridors, late-night laughter, 5 am H&C sessions, and that one room I share with someone who turned from a stranger into my favourite person. I miss my friends. I miss my roommate so, so much more than I expected to- the way our days synced, the small rituals of living, the comforting presence of someone who understood silence just as much as conversation, and the knowledge that the person who is my everything is across the room. Homecoming, it turns out, is not just about returning; it’s about realizing what you left behind still tugs at you, gently reminding you not to forget them.
But before nostalgia swallows me whole, there is always the first ritual- Coco. My nine-month-old Shih Tzu, who I swear has the emotional range of a dramatic heroine in a Bollywood film. The moment I step inside, she doesn’t just greet me; she explodes into joy. There is jumping, barking, that dangerously enthusiastic tail, and eyes that somehow say, “You took forever, but I forgive you because you’re mine.” I bury my face into her soft fur, inhaling the oddly soothing smell of dog shampoo and chaos, and she throws herself into my arms with the kind of devotion humans spend lifetimes chasing. I hold her like she’s a living reminder that unconditional love lives in wagging tails and tiny paws, and not just in my friends, who, by now, are spread across the country. Loving her feels grounding. It makes me feel like I belong somewhere solid. And in that moment, despite everything and everyone I miss, despite the heartwrenching tug-of-war between two worlds, Coco makes sure that I am deeply, ridiculously loved here too.
Once Coco has successfully drowned me in unconditional affection and I’ve whispered at least twenty ridiculous nicknames into her ears, I do what any emotionally recovering college student does: I turn to food- not just eating, but the warmth of making something for myself. There’s something incredibly healing about being in the kitchen again. After months of mess hall food, questionable snacks, and the occasional instant noodles emergency meal, cooking feels luxurious. It’s like reclaiming agency over my life again. I chop vegetables like I’m reclaiming sanity, stir spices like I’m stirring comfort into existence, and wait for the soft sizzle of hope cooking on a pan. Then comes the eating part- plate in hand, sitting wherever feels right, whether it’s the table or my bed, maybe scrolling mindlessly, maybe just existing quietly with my food. There is peace in that first real bite. The kind of peace that doesn’t need poetry- just flavour, warmth, and familiarity.
And then, because I’m still a child of convenience, modern chaos, and late-capitalism comfort, the third ritual is almost comical- I open Blinkit, Swiggy, or whichever delivery app calls my name first. There’s joy in scrolling endlessly through options, negotiating cravings with practicality, and then finally clicking “order” like sealing a peace treaty with my tired brain. And when that knock on the door finally comes? That’s happiness in cardboard packaging. It’s comfort arriving at your doorstep, ready to be devoured guiltlessly. Maybe it’s snacks. Maybe it’s dessert. Maybe it’s something completely unnecessary. Sometimes it’s the illusion of independence. Sometimes it’s simply indulgence I don’t need to justify. It feels like telling myself, “You’re home. You’ve earned a little ease.”So yes, I’m home. And I’m wrapped in love, food, comfort, a hyperactive dog, and the luxury of familiar walls. But in between loving Coco, seasoning food, and tracking delivery orders, there’s still a thread connecting me back to college. To midnight confessions, laughter echoing in a cramped room with five people that matter the most to me. More than anything, it’s that one person who made ordinary days feel softer, who shows me how I deserve to be loved on a daily basis. Being home doesn’t erase that longing; it just teaches me that belonging can exist in more than one place at once. I can be here- fully, lovingly, gratefully- and still miss college with a tenderness that hurts, but also hums quietly in the background.
Coming home after three months means loving what I returned to, while still carrying what I left behind. And maybe that’s what growing up really is- learning to live in the in-between, with love stretching across two homes, two worlds, and one heart learning to hold both.