The heartache continues now that i contemplate my room, the navy carpet that i once spent a lot of effort vaccuming, the bed that spells comfort for me, the turquoise duvet that keeps me warm at night, the wooden table that holds my work, the view from the window. It has become my source of security and refuge over the months. When i think of sweeping it clean of my presence, of having some stranger take over it, i feel a lot of pain in my heart.

I feel a similar heartache when i contemplate the items i brought from back home, the thermo flask, the herbs... all the things that my mother lovingly prepared for me. It makes me miss her so. I want to call her every day, to ease this gnawing feeling in my chest, but i know she can't fork out the time to listen to me.

I want to bring everything back, even the most trivial, unused item, and keep them by my side. Because these are the little things that make up your lifestyle, that bear memories of when you bought them, who you bought tem with, and what you did with them. But i know i can't do that, my luggage won't fit them all; i have to leave something behind.

Perhaps this is what it means to grow up, to gain a lot of things dear to you, only to be torn away from them, and to learn to live with it. The grandmother on her armchair, with a history of lost items and lost acquaintences. Smiling her wrinkled smile, her pain private to her alone.