It’s been six months now, since I moved in. Six months ago all I cared about was decorating my flat; giving it the specific “Becca-Touch” that included various colours, things that people consider to be rummage and most important of all, rubber duckies ( I happen to collect them). My flat does represent all that I like, even in the smallest corner, but one specific aspect was missing; the feeling of being home.
What I did not seem to be able to create though, was that very feeling. The first time I figured out that it may take a while until I will feel home was when I went to bed for the first time, realizing that I was scared of possible robbers, monsters, or simply the darkness that may come hunting me. Adding up to that, I was always on the go. I left for Denmark almost every month and spent my weekends with my parents for the most part. I felt alone and I would feel alone for quite a while, until yesterday.
Yesterday, after getting up, I looked at the mirror and I saw myself being in between tired and awake, with a face that would scare the hell out of every topmodel. But this was when I realized that I had actually slept quite well. So well, that it took me at least 45 minutes of constantly pushing the snooze-button, before i considered getting up. So well, that I had forgotten about who may ever could potentially catch a glimpse of me, when I walk into my kitchen to have some breakfast. So well, that I just felt home.
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