The afterparty.

Not even in an hour, everything becomes empty again. The chairs are pulled to the side and the racks display nothing. The bags are placed at the back of the car. We’re good to go.

Maybe it’s just me. I stare at the sky and I wonder if I’ll ever see it the same way. It hasn’t been this clear for so long, hasn’t been this bright or blue. Everything seems to be beneath a sheet of sepia. It’s weird how all the hues refuse to melt under the hot scalpel sun rays.

The back of my head bumps against the head rest every time we go over a hump. I feel like a saltshaker being jerked, my thoughts falling away into oblivion.

Tomorrow, I’ll be in touch with the world again. I’ll be chasing fx’s and riding jeepneys and my hair won’t smell like candy anymore. I’ll be wearing jeans and walking outside and eating lunch while sitting on cold AS floor. I don’t know. Maybe all that will snap fingers before my eyes. Then I’ll forget, or at least try to, about the days that has just passed; of the meals I was excited about; of every single moment that made me realise everything subtracted from my life this past month.

And maybe home will only exist as a memory -- something to be relived someday. Perhaps more like something to make again. Something I may not be able to tell people about because they just won’t understand. If it hasn’t perished at all the moment I stepped away from the door, it has to be wherever I want it to be. It’s where family is.

I remember tiny blasts from the past. Milo every night I was home alone; untouched bags of clothes; phone calls and surprise hellos. These are what matters. And I’ve always known. It’s just that I never really understood.

Wow. I’m almost convinced I’ve grown up.