Wherever I go, I start missing home. I miss the northern weather, the freshness, the greenery. I miss the streets, the alleys, the people, even the neighbors. I miss the smell of fresh bread from the bakery in our neighborhood. I miss the rain and that humid northern air. I miss the trees at the end of our street. For me, the way back home is always happier than the road that takes me away, even if I’m going on a trip. You know, I have this sense of belonging… a real feeling of “home.” And maybe that’s why, despite all the difficulties here, I’ve never been able to leave or even think about emigrating. Home isn’t just a place, it’s your memories, your joy, your scars. And every single time I’m on my way back home, I swear I’m the happiest person in the world.