“I made it home safe!” That text was a lie. Yes, I am safe, but I am not home. The weather app says it's cloudy, but I must scroll to a new city to see the same sun outside my window. I never know what to say when the receptionist asks for my permanent address. I could give the meaningless string of numbers that decorate the front porch of my leased space, but they asked about my home. Home is where my father etched my name into the still-wet concrete that boasted countless chalk masterpieces. Home is where my mother notched out the only proof that I was once the bigger sibling. Home is where I had a brother I could scream at through a slammed door, not schedule a call with from hundreds of miles apart. Where I live now boasts wine glasses and brie, and yet I am hungry for home, with its expired condiments and cozy mess.