5. Home isn’t where, but who and what.
Home isn’t always a tangible structure. It’s the sound of Avril Lavigne’s voice and the smell of play dough. Home is the sound of two hearts frantically beating in unison while sneaking out of the house. It’s the smell of June right before sunrise. Home is the weight of unconscious rib cages against hardwood floors. It’s in the prayers against the static on the radio. Home is in the cigarette smoke and pinkie promises. It’s the voice of the other person saying, “I swear.”