Homesick

(photo taken by me)

This semester, I have spent much of my free time sitting on the lawn at my school because I know I will miss this liveliness when winter comes. It never occurred to me before that I would someday find myself craving the sunlight I once dreaded. It’s an insatiable hunger, like a vampire yearning for blood. I crave the warm streaks of light on my skin, something so familiar it feels like home. Growing up in a tropical climate, the cold of Illinois fascinates me, yet it feels distant.

My house in my home country was one of many, lined up in an endless row. Every house looked the same, indistinguishable, except for the cars parked out front. If you got lost, you couldn’t find your way without asking the security guard; that’s how identical they all were. The drive from my house to downtown took 40 minutes. I both loved and hated it. Maybe this feeling isn’t homesickness. Maybe I just want to feel comfortable in my own skin, so comfortable that I can take off this heavy coat. Perhaps I just miss my dog. She’s seven now. Calling her a dog feels awkward—she’s more like a sibling to me.

Standing by the beach now, I’m not even sure it counts as one. The wind strikes me hard, like a blow to the chest, and memories flood back. I remember when I was five, my parents took me to the beach at least twice a year. How many years has it been? Living in America, I constantly switch between hating and loving being different. Maybe I’ve always been like this—indecisive, always lingering between choices, afraid of cutting the wrong wire on a ticking bomb. Once, my professor told me that many people are too afraid of making mistakes and end up facing the consequences of doing nothing anyway. That sentence felt like a cold hand gripping my neck, mingling with a surge of unexplainable emotions. I wanted to vomit. When my mom asked if studying abroad was my choice, I didn’t answer. I wanted to get away, but even then, I knew I’d be haunted by the nostalgia of what was and what could have been if I had stayed.

The summer in Vietnam was brutal with its heat and humidity. It was mid-July, and the heat was unbearable. After lunch, I was informed that one of my puppies had died when he was only six months old because my aunt was careless enough to let him die in pain. The temperature was always at an all-time high, but especially that noon, I felt like somebody had cut my throat, for I couldn’t catch a breath or utter any word. I just cried. Even now, as I type these words, the pain hasn’t gone away. I wonder—if I had stayed home, if I hadn’t chosen to study abroad, would anything be different? The throbbing pain would eventually cease, but something changed. Coming back to America, I have become afraid of time. It feels like I’m standing on the edge of a mountain, precariously. I miss home, and I'm afraid of something that has not yet happened. I am consumed by fear—fear of something unreal. Is it okay for me to be here? Am I worthy? I understand my words seem melodramatic, and my life isn’t that bad. People have it worse. But that’s how I feel—missing home, being part of something, and feeling left out. I miss my parents. I miss my siblings. I miss my friends. I miss my dog. I miss being part of something. I miss being visible.