Today, while sending a text to bf, I wrote something which sort of made me jump a little. You might think it's silly, but I asked him:
"When will you be home?"
The flat in which we have lived for five years is still saved in my phone under its street name.
When I call 'home', I ring my parents, all those miles north, still living in the house I grew up in. When I visit, I say I'm going 'home'.
I very rarely indeed refer to the place we live in together as 'home'.
But that's what we're creating, or part of it. Once we're married, we are family. Whereever we live together is our home. He is my home. I am his.
One day, there will be little people living with us, calling the bit between the roof and the walls their home.
I don't know why I find this strange.
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