Denial.

Leaving was hard. So much harder than he had expected it to be.

You see, the young twenty-something brunette had gotten a job halfway across the globe and boy, was he excited. It was exactly what he had been working towards ever since the day he began his career. Actually, no, cross that out. He had been working towards his dream ever since he was in ninth grade.

For some context, we must go back a couple of years (well, not exactly a couple of years — it’s definitely more than that given how long ago high school was).

It was a Thursday morning like every other.

The young boy felt excitement growing in the pit of his stomach — and not just the kind you get when you know the week is about to end. No, not at all. This Thursday was different. It was the day the brunette had fallen in love.

The day he found his reason to get up in the mornings.

His school had arranged for a morning field trip to a nearby dinosaur-themed museum — basic, I know. But the moment the young boy wandered into the building and locked eyes with the sockets of a Triceratops skeleton, he knew this was where he belonged.

Fast forward a couple years filled with borderline obsession and coffee fueled late-night cramming sessions (all tucked in a blanket of joy, ofcourse) and you get to this very moment.

This moment that should feature our brunette jumping in joy. This moment that should be the peak of his life. This moment that he had been waiting so long for.

He’s finally where he wants to be. Surrounded by what he loves most.

And yet, he doesn’t have that tell tale skip in his step, or the trademark spark in his eyes.

Instead, his entire being seems to paint a picture of longing.

Now, that’s not to say he had cried himself to sleep or had spent the last few days at work moping. He. Did. Not.

But sometimes, he’d stare himself in the mirror and just think.

Not about anything in particular. At times he’d think of the colour gray. Other times, he’d mull over potatoes. It wasn’t anything significant, he’d tell himself.

But everytime he thought about something obscure, he would tie it back to home.

His wardrobe was grey. His sister loved potatoes. And he, very plainly, missed home.

Which is totally understandable. Afterall, he had left behind his whole life and now has to rebuild it from scratch. He’s allowed to want to hug his mom every now and then. But this is only what we think as bystanders.

To him, even missing home the tiniest bit is a disgrace.

How dare he? After he chose this life himself? What makes him think he has the right to be ungrateful?

And so, his head is shrouded with such thoughts that cover up the shine in his eye and kick any shred of rational thinking he might have otherwise had, to the side.

So here we are, with a slightly tipsy (he needed a break, okay?) twenty something year old that flat out refuses to believe that it’s okay have a hard time, draped over his suitcase with his hands clutching the shoes his dad gave him as if they could grow legs and run away, and all he can think is,

“How did I get here?”