The twenty-two glorious years of my life had always been spent under the careful and cautious glare of my family. It came with its own set of pros and cons. My every reasonable desire was always taken care of and, I had no sense independence. 

Naturally, I wanted out – live by myself, cook for myself, make choices for myself. “It’s a big decision.” they said. I know.  “It will change you. “they said. That’s exactly what I am rooting for. So when the opportunity of moving to the big bad capital city sprang upon me, I took it, without a second thought.

My new apartment here had everything I wanted to cram in my little room back home. I have my personal space, endless amounts of solitude and a quaint little balcony. I could laze around in bed as much as I want, read a book by the balcony and just do stuff. But it grew old in just a couple of days. I felt a void even after long hours of college and a chirpy roommate. 

I couldn’t possibly be homesick. I always wanted my freedom and I had it. I refused to feel what my mind wanted to feel. Twenty odd calls to my family and friends later, the feeling still wouldn’t go. Who was I really missing? I couldn’t pin point to one particular person.

As I retired for the day wiping off that tiny bead of sweat, I felt a chill down my spine. Maybe I missed the warmth. Maybe I missed home.