Texts to/at/for/from Home

words by Bhavya, art by Justina Lu

Fri, Dec 20

it has been three days since you got home—why did I leave the house and come back to find your clothes still in the suitcase? Is this how you leave things in your apartment at UVA, too? They are all over the floor. You can not stay this messy all the time.

it's fine amma. I’ll clean it up after i take a quick shower.

Fri, Dec 27

*i know i should be unpacking my stuff, but i don’t even know where i’ll put it. and in less than three weeks, i will have to repack all my clothes. is it even worth doing this now?*

akka, why is your makeup sitting like that in the bathroom? I cleared out the whole cabinet to make space for your stuff. I can’t have your things in the way when i’m already rushing to get to school

well, if you’d reminded me i left stuff at home, i wouldn’t have had to bring double the amount. you wouldn’t have to deal with all my stuff taking up space.

your sister told me you snapped at her. why are you frustrated when it is your fault you did not remember the items you left at home? you have been here for one week, and all i have done is remind you to clean after yourself. she made this space for you, and you just piled everything next to this makeup bag. 

i am annoyed with her, amma. she doesn’t seem to understand where i am coming from. it doesn’t make sense to put everything in my closet or in the shelves if i am going to leave soon. and, i texted iddi beforehand about my items, so i’m not bringing double the items.

and, why should i keep track of your items? i am not the one who has twenty different bottles of foundation. 

it is not hard to keep track of the three items i left. it was just a foundation, blush, and one tube of concealer. and, i even made sure to text you during your non-school hours because i know you will be home to check for me.

no, you sent it when i was in school. don’t lie to me. also, aren’t you the one who has the spreadsheets and tracks all your items? 

see, it doesn't even feel like you’re a member of this house anymore. you arrive like a guest, roll around in your bed, and then leave after a while. do you even value the effort we put to cleaning the space you never live in?

yeah! amma doesn’t need to wash all your bedsheets and towels, vacuum your room, and re-arrange your bed just for you to roll around and act lazy. honestly next time you visit, remind me to never clean anything for you.

Sun, Jan 12

did you check to make sure to pack everything?

yes. most of my items were already in the suitcase or near the makeup bag. if i need anything, i will just text iddi to leave it on my desk. 

—

I send the final text, immediately placing my phone on airplane mode. It’s almost become a quiet ritual of refusal—my college life left in a messy pile within the confines of my suitcase. I was never willing to unleash my new life into the corners of my childhood home, never letting it settle in the spaces once mine. The half-empty suitcase was a testament to the distance, the in-between, the strange place where I don’t quite belong anymore, and yet can’t fully leave. It was the cause of restlessness in the house, unspoken expectations polluting the air. 

Every item I unpacked into its respective place encouraged a slow process of re-entering, as though I’m trying to carve out a space again, to make room for myself where I’m no longer the visitor. The neatly folded clothes serve as a reminder that the longer I stay, the harder it becomes to uproot myself. The harder it becomes to convey that I had become a temporary member of the household. It’s a push and pull that I can’t ignore. 

The feeling of being the guest in my home and a temporary fixture in my family’s lives never quite goes away. Each time I mix up the kitchen drawers is a small but significant reminder that I’ve lost touch with that house and the people in it. It’s like the devil sitting on my shoulder whispering to me, 

“This isn’t home, not really, and never will be again.” 

So, I feed into the idea of being temporary, letting my life stay tucked underneath the zippers of my luggage, never fully unpacked. It feels easier to embrace the role of an occasional visitor, drifting in and out, than to confront the reality of not knowing the house I once called mine. Each return is telling of the fact that I have outgrown the place. The smallest details—where things are, how things feel—are foreign to me. 

I quietly surrender to the distance, to the fact that I no longer belong in the way I once did.