Words for Nobody

there’s a strange, tender kind of belonging that doesn’t always come wrapped in permanence. sometimes home isn’t a place with walls or a roof — it’s a person, or a few people, with whom you let your guard down, where your edges soften, and you catch your breath.

i think of those fleeting moments, the small pockets of time where you’re not just tolerated but fully seen. the friend whose couch became your refuge on a stormy night; the stranger who became a companion on a trip you never expected to take; the lover whose hands made the world feel less sharp, even if only for a handful of days.

home, in these moments, is less about geography and more about spirit. it’s the quiet understanding shared over a cup of tea, the laughter that feels like a secret language, the comfortable silences that don’t demand explanation.

i carry these homes inside me — folded gently like worn letters in a box — knowing they shaped me even if they didn’t last. some homes you make are brief, like a song you play once but never forget. others linger longer, imprinting on your skin and memory.

and sometimes, the most profound home is the one you find inside yourself after all the others have slipped away. but the echoes of those who made space for you, who let you be, whisper still, reminding you that belonging is possible, even if temporary.

who have you made home with, even for a little while?

I must’ve been about nine. That loose, liminal age where your sense of self is still made of borrowed scraps — the way your mum parts her hair, the songs your older cousin plays in the car, the smell of someone else's house that you think might be better than yours. I was wearing a jumper too big for me and shoes that squeaked on the assembly hall floor. It was a Thursday, which meant recorder practice, custard, and the boy with the chipped front tooth.

He was cool in the effortless way of kids who don’t try. I, meanwhile, tried so hard I nearly tipped over with it. I remember clutching The Secret Garden, trying to look like I understood the sadness of it all. I remember drawing a crow in blue biro on my pencil case. I remember laughing — too loud — when he said something vaguely funny, because I wanted to be seen. Not liked, necessarily. Just noticed. Just enough to change the temperature of the room when I walked in.

That was the first time I remember wanting to impress someone. Not because I wanted them to love me. I didn’t even know what that meant yet. But because I wanted to be something. Interesting. Strange, but in a curated way. Worth the space I took up.

Of course, he barely looked my way. Of course, I pretended I didn’t care. But that flicker — of trying to be shinier, cleverer, a little more like someone he'd remember — has never really left me. It’s just evolved: into mixes burned at midnight, book recommendations too carefully chosen, eyeliner sharp enough to wound.

Funny how a moment that small can echo for years.