Next week...I'll be back to a place called home. I remember years back, when I went home... I'd wait until the bus crosses the border, and somehow, albeit the toxic exhaust fumes and stale air at the causeway, I'd take a deep breath and it'd feel that I have reached home.

Its really not that things are perfect over there, but the feeling of going back to a place where people know you and don't judge you for who you are, where friends are people who really cared for you and family is just around the corner. I guess I do miss home. A week to spend, reduced by 3 days of work, seems a little short. But it'd have to make do for now.

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