It’s strange how this abstract concept of home is anchored so concretely in simply having a place for your belongings and how the lack thereof can leave you feeling somewhat adrift.

Place. Yours. Belonging. I think those are the keywords to home – and why I feel so far away from it at the moment.

I never imagined it would be this hard for me, giving up an apartment I’ve only lived in for six months – something that I’ve always understood to be temporary. But having to put everything into suitcases, leaving behind what I don’t need/can’t fit, handing back those keys- it’s been an emotional experience and one that’s been extremely lonely. It feels meaningful, though, like a rite of passage – almost symbolic, but I can’t quite figure out of what.

I don’t know what I feel I’ve lost but the emptiness is there, and I feel the need to mourn for the loss, alone, until I’m ready to figure out how to fill the gaping hole it left inside.

Somehow, it makes it worse knowing that the place is there, as I left it, but that I can’t go back and that if I do, it’s no longer mine. This feels like a breakup. There’s just no going back. “Move on Fei, he’s not yours anymore.”

What confuses me is why this particular move has been so hard. I’ve moved away from lots of apartments before. I cried leaving a few of them, but not this hard. I still feel like those places are mine in some way – I’ve never felt like I’ve really lost them. I’ve kept them, the memories of them in my possession. Maybe it’s because I chose to leave them. Maybe it’s because I always had a better place lined up right after that I had something to look forward to with eagerness, to keep me from looking back with longing.

I thought perhaps that I would feel liberated, lighter, mobile – something I idealize. Yet I can’t help feeling a little bit like a freed bird that just wants to go home to its cage. Though I know there’s nothing to fear, though I am not afraid of what’s ahead, I am still scared. The worst bit, though, is not knowing of what, and why.

It’s been odd figuring out how to get settled here at Grace’s, a place I know I’ll only be at for 2 weeks. It’s odd because I have all my belongings with me here, and it is a place I am familiar and comfortable with, yet, it doesn’t warrant making this place home. It’s also different from being just a guest with a little travel suitcase. Then, there’d be no discussion about how comfortable I’m supposed to get. You can unpack everything without feeling like you’re too attached because there’s no need for you to cling to it – you’ll be home, at your own place soon enough.

Another reason why I’m confused at how hard this is, is because I’ve been in this exact situation before – but in reverse. When I first came to China, I had all my belongings in suitcases but no place that was mine to put them. I didn’t seem to mind it then. I had the person I came here for – and that’s all I cared about. I was home.

There’s a place for me. A few places, actually. Places where I belong. Places where I am welcome to put my things and claim a piece of for my own. There’s a place for me in Malaysia, and one in Singapore. Family. There’s an indescribable comfort in knowing that there’s always that to go back to – even when neither of those places were ones that I’ve lived in growing up, it can still be home. As long as my family’s there, I have a place. That’s a comfort.

Then, there’s that place in California. The one I’ve never even seen but is meant for me. It’s there, waiting for me and my things. Waiting for me to complete it. To complete him.

Home is Christopher and giving this one up brings me one step closer to him. I cling to that thought.

So maybe I’m not homeless after all. I’m just in transit.