Still here.

And I’m happy.

Mom says maybe this is my place, and maybe she’s right. It’s been less than two months but I’ve met amazing people and feel like I’m apart of a family that reminds me so much of my own.

I’ve explored, danced until my body hurt, laughed until I cried. I’ve cried. Especially for what isn’t, and have been comforted by what is.

I’ve fallen in love with a combination of green grass, colorful lights, and classical music. With a Japanese garden. With strawberry gelato (No, wait. I was already in love with strawberry gelato!). With baby talk and dress up and counting to ten. With head wraps and accents and even oddly curious stares.

Mochas have never tasted better. Franzbrötchen slid into my favorites as if it’s been there the whole time. And Skippy isn’t the only edible brand of peanut butter after all.

I’ve learned how to knit. A boy gave me poetry. A baby gave me a nickname that’s the best thing since “Breezly”.

So yeah, maybe this is my place. But even if isn’t, I’m so grateful for it anyway.

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