Home is where the termites dwell

 "Talking to the water, my bow tilts slightly, as if agreeing, while the water calms itself to listen." That’s what I wanted to say when they asked for my opinion during dinner. Instead, I heard myself lie, "The food’s great," as something lodged in my throat. A feeling I knew would pass with a sip of water.

But all I longed for was to retreat to the solace of my own company, where words flow freely and the world leans in, understanding. Where the wind arrives with a quiet intimacy, brushing past me like a fleeting embrace, tilting my bow just enough to remind me I’m heard. Where sunlight lingers delicately, never too bold to shatter the fragile veneer of my blues, as though it knows too much brightness might erase me altogether.

Now we’re splitting the bill, exchanging goodbyes, and I find my face breaking into a smile. I’m going back home, a place where the silence is eerie, the unpredictability oddly comforting. Like termites, whose presence reveals itself only after the damage is done. Perhaps I’ve grown fond of this ruin, this quiet unpredictability, where self-acknowledgment feels unnecessary and I’m invisible enough to let the dents in life settle around me like an ill-fitting jacket. 

They look wonderful, don’t they?” Father had once said, gazing at the cracks, dents, and holes in his house. “Yes, they do,” I remember replying. But I didn’t tell him the rest, that clusters of vibrant souls had felt trapped here staying willingly until they became those cracks, dents, and holes.