Sunday, November 23, 2025
Do you feel at home? When you walk through your door, do you feel welcomed? On days of overthinking, does your home clear your mind? Are you aware of where your home truly lies?
“We are all strangers in a strange land, longing for home, but not quite knowing what or where home is. We glimpse it sometimes in our dreams, or as we turn a corner, and suddenly there is a strange, sweet familiarity that vanishes almost as soon as it comes.”
― Madeleine L’Engle, The Rock That Is Higher: Story as Truth
Here’s a story I wrote back when I was in high school on the topic of home. I hope you enjoy.
The first rumble of thunder rolled in just after the laughter peaked.
A man stood beneath the awning of a dimly lit bar, his friends still inside, their laughter muffled through the closed door behind him. The evening had been warm and easy. Stories passed around the table like drinks and the kind of laughter that left your ribs sore in the best way. For a while, he forgot the tension he always carried behind his eyes. For a while, he felt present.
But when the sky murmured that low warning, he instinctively stepped outside. A lifetime of watching storms roll in from his grandmother’s porch had taught him to move before the downpour. So he left without much more than a nod and a wave, “Catch you next time,” and pulled his coat tighter as he started the long walk home.
The second crack of thunder chased him down the sidewalk.
The streets had thinned. Shopkeepers hurried to roll down their metal gates. The scent of rain lingered on the edge of the air, crisp and heavy. It hadn’t started pouring yet, but the clouds hung low and impatient. Each step he took was accompanied by the dull rhythm of his own thoughts—ones he’d managed to hush while with his friends but now stirred awake again.
Do you feel at home?
The question echoed, unprompted.
He didn’t know where it came from. Maybe the wind whispered it. Maybe it had been hiding in the sound of clinking glasses or tucked between someone’s punchline back at the bar. Either way, it followed him as he turned down the final street toward his apartment.
The clouds were reaching their peak when the sky finally let go, as a misty drizzle began descending. Lost in thought, he continued walking at his same pace. It was almost as if he was on auto-pilot. Even the motions of him putting on his jacket, he seemed far away. He walked this path so many times, it was second nature. His body was confident enough to have his mind wander that far.
He stopped outside the door. Two years. Same red bricks, same silver number plate, same rusted handle. Yet it still felt like a place he visited, not one he belonged to.
He stared for a moment longer, then finally pushed the door open.
The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. He stood in the entryway, dripping quietly, the thunder now a distant growl outside. He didn’t bother to turn on the light right away. The dim yellow from the street lamps outside filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.
He took a deep breath.
The place smelled faintly of lavender detergent and the leftovers he’d meant to eat yesterday but forgot. Everything was in order—clean, untouched. The cushions on the couch sat too neatly. His books were lined up spine to spine, not a single one left open or face-down the way he used to do back in high school when his room had more chaos but more character.
When you walk through your door, do you feel welcomed?
The question came again. He peeled off his damp coat and hung it on the same hook he always used. It swayed slightly, like even it wasn’t sure if it belonged.
The place was… fine. Safe. Comfortable. But did it want him here? Did it miss him when he was gone?
He walked into the living room and sat down, staring at nothing in particular. The low hum of the refrigerator and the quiet tick of the wall clock were the only sounds. He could still feel the echo of his friends’ voices from earlier. Stories bouncing off each other, teasing jabs softened by smiles, shared memories of late-night drives and dumb inside jokes.
They had offered him a ride home, but he declined. Something in him wanted to walk. Or maybe something in him knew he needed space to wrestle with the unease he could never quite explain.
On days of overthinking, does your home clear your mind?
He looked around. The walls didn’t speak back. They didn’t hush his thoughts or hold his heaviness. They stood still, pristine, undisturbed by joy or grief. The apartment had everything a person could need: warmth, shelter, privacy. But it didn’t know him.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands laced together. His eyes dropped to the floor.
Why did he feel lonelier here than he did on the crowded sidewalk?
And then, the final whisper:
Are you aware of where your home truly lies?
He let the question sit.
Images rose in his mind unbidden, his mother humming while folding laundry, his dad’s too-loud laugh during Sunday morning cartoons, the way his childhood bedroom always smelled faintly of old books and rain. But there was more.
The text message from a friend that just said, “Thinking of you today.”
The way someone remembered his coffee order without asking.
A shared silence that didn’t feel awkward, just safe.
His little niece falling asleep on his shoulder at a family gathering.
The guitar pick he carried in his pocket, worn from years of use but still loyal.
Home was never just a location.
It was the collection of moments that softened him, the people who saw through his silences, the parts of himself he didn’t have to edit.
He stood and moved to the window, watching the storm as it fully showed itself. The rain falling with such heft, blurred his view outside. With his hand on the glass, he let the coolness settle over his skin and breathed it in.
He would keep the apartment. It was shelter, after all. A base. A pause in the journey.
But his real home?
That was a work in progress. Not one he’d find with a map or on Zillow, but one he’d build with memories, with people, with pieces of himself he hadn’t yet dared to share.
And for the first time in a long while, he smiled.
Because he understood now:
Home wasn’t waiting for him.
He had to create it.
And he would.
One storm, one step, one true connection at a time.
Thank you!
When I read these questions, the first answer that comes to mind is wherever my family is present. Whether it be with each of them individually, when they open their arms for a hug or when I open the front door hearing a dog bark. But especially so when I see the excitement in the eyes of those who didn’t know I was coming over. That is where my home lies.
Thank you for reading through this short story my teenage self wrote and I currently edited. I know your time is valuable, and I’m thankful you spent it here. Feel free to share any thoughts or your version of home in the comment section. I hope you have a wonderful rest of your day! Thank you!