I remember climbing up the ladder into the ceiling at my high school, and signing my name on the wall next to all the other Variety Show directors and assistant directors. Names littered across the wall in overlapping chaos. Some signatures grand, sweeping gestures of immortality marked across the painted cement wall. I signed my name in the midst of those who came before me, and I often wonder if it is still there, and if this tradition is still upheld. For me, it marked the end of an era. The era where I was always in the background, blending in. The era I stopped ignoring what I believed in. The end of the era where I had to find myself, and the start of one where I knew exactly who I was.

I remember standing one last time on the stage that made me who I was, and later finding out that I inspired others to find themselves there too.

And before all this, there was the purple and yellow sponge-painted wall in my tiny bedroom with two closets and a pink rug, back on Timber Trail. Top of the walls lined with a classic Winnie the Pooh border and a bed covered with stuffed animals, and a pillow that I picked up from a pile in Bed, Bath, and Beyond and haven’t put it down since.

Finally piling into the light blue minivan, and driving away— nothing different about all the times before, except this time we weren’t coming back. We paused briefly and I took one last look at the only home I ever thought I would know.

We visited the plot of land that was to be my new home—nothing there but dirt. We visited again and again, until a skeleton of a house emerged from the grey, cement foundation. Wooden beams in a cross-stitched pattern, layering in between, underneath, and over, but looking nothing like a place to live. Homes are not meant to be empty. Homes are not meant to be see-through. But then there were stairs, and I could step into my room. And then there was a fireplace, and my mom showed me where the piano was going to go, and my dad pointed out where he would build the tree house if he ever did. My brothers both excited and relieved they would no longer have to share a room. Floors went down, and the furniture moved in. Walls were painted and pictures were hung up. Holidays were celebrated, and sleepovers took place. Pets passed away, and kittens were adopted. It was in this house that I truly learned what it’s like to create a home.

College came; where it was impossible not to fall in love—in love with writing, in love with music, in love with the friends I made, in love with the possibility of my future, and in love with love itself.

In love with you.

The memories in Kingston, and the nights none of us remember. Through blizzards, and hurricanes — and that time the entire state of Rhode Island flooded, but campus was fine so it was just one more week of spring break. The week you and I truly got to know what it was like to be you and I.

Year after year, I keep piling one room into the next: trinkets that follow me from shelf to shelf, a pile of books— some yellowing with age, and some crisp and unread.The walls painted with memories, and adorned with an exact visual representation of who I am. Always the same printed out picture of Sailor Venus, the same Mugglenet stickers from 2007, the same vintage Star Wars blue print posters that I never understood why my brothers left behind, and always a Panda Bear in the center of my bed.

Sometimes, meaning can fade and memories overshadowed, and a home becomes broken. Sometimes, a home just can’t possibly provide the endless comfort that is so desperately needed. The nights after the wrong boy broke my heart. The stupid fights with my family. The betrayal I felt, and mostly how I betrayed myself. The rumors that were only in my head, and when I can’t be in my room because I know there is a mouse there instead.

Home, n.: a word that has nothing to do with location.

I am home in Dillon, Texas. I am home at Hogwarts. I am home on Endor. I am home in a magic tree house, and in Middle Earth. I am home in Hyrule, in Seattle Grace Hospital, and in Mystic Falls.

I am home when I am laughing. I am home when my hand slips into yours. I’m home when my cat is purring and my dog is barking. I can be at home in two places at once. I leave a little bit of me wherever I go, and it’s all right if I never pick up the pieces. Boston, Orlando, Portland, Chicago, Toronto, and London. There are pieces of me there. Sometimes I am reunited with them, but I like to think I can continue leaving them places for people to find.