My dad's house? I can say "I'm back" or refer to it as "my house", but I can't call it home. I've tried, but it feels like such a lie. It's not my place to return to.
My mom's. There is no space there for me to call it home. There's my bed, there's my desk, and there's my mirror, my pillow, and my piano. But there's someone else's stuff on it. The man with the disease. The disease that I now have...
No, it's not my home.
My home...
I don't have a home.
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