I’m home. Is it home? Is it me? The reality seems unmoved, yet the feeling of it falling apart is ever present. After two years of being away, I visited home to find my cousins and niece grown up and facing the new reality of adulthood in the country that just waged a war. Forgetting my home gave me the insight into remembering: my childhood, my teenage years, them growing up and me being there, putting them to bed or answering their questions of what love is. They are almost unrecognizable to me: their manner of speaking, their facial features, their worries, and their thoughts. They are so distant from the little girls I witnessed growing up as a teenager. Yet, the bond is there, although there is a lot more hidden between us, which I tried so hard to grasp and comprehend. First loves, heartbreaks, dreams, and their day-to-day, became accessible to me for this little while and made me remember myself and realize how ever penetrating and enclosing the feeling of war is in me and in the way I see the place I can barely call home anymore.