It was summer when we first met and she asked me. “Where do you go for fun in this town?”

I shrugged and answered. “Home.”

She made me feel like a teenager. Excited; all new and powerful. An antidote to routine and familiar comforts. A sharer of her energy and overflowing spirit; she could see around corners. She was open and honest; endlessly forgiving. She was feeling everything, for everyone, all of the time.

But I couldn’t cope. My brain would explode if I attempted to play along. Long ago; burnt out and severely melted. I don’t want to go. Unless it’s staying here or alone out to the moors.

I left that night through the window. Yes, I could use the door, but it didn’t feel as exciting. As I got outside I smelled the petrichor and damp pollen. A freshness hard to find in my house. I knew instantly things could change. It was dark and all the people were asleep. I made my way through the woods just me and a torch, disturbing a twig with a clumsy step, hearing surprised pigeons take off, breaking the silence of the night.

Two hours of walking later I arrived. Surrounded by heather, by the chirruping of the ground nesting birds, by the rare concerned bolve of a stag, and by the burgeoning light from the spectacular sunrise. This location gave everything to me and I took nothing. A pure feeling of lack of people, lack of judgment, a lack of anger. Nothing in the best possible sense, here it meant the endless space between me and the stars, the emptiness between me and my surroundings. Full of potential. Maybe the universe could be my place. A place I could feel like myself. A place where I belonged. A place I felt closest to her. I shed a tear for her love and all of existence.

I had come home.