“Not All Homes Have Doors , Some Just Feel Like Belonging.”

Growing up in a small town in Bengal, I often heard my grandmother say, “Duto chokh jekhanei jaay, ekdin chole jaabo.” Back then, it sounded poetic , like a promise of freedom, of distant lands and unseen skies. But as I grew older, I realized it wasn’t about escaping to somewhere. It was about the ache of not belonging anywhere.

Now, in my late twenties, with responsibilities piling on my shoulders and life demanding its version of “settling down,” I understand what she meant. It wasn't about travel or death, but the loneliness of existence , even when you're surrounded by people.

In this vast world, some of us spend our whole lives searching. Not for riches, not for fame, but for a home , not just bricks and walls but a space that feels like a soft sigh after a long day. A place that doesn’t judge your silence, that doesn’t demand explanations for your tears. A place where your soul doesn’t feel like a guest.

There are shelters for refugees, roofs over heads, luxury apartments glowing in city lights . Yet the home our hearts seek remains elusive. What we crave is not comfort, but connection. Not a house, but a nest , like a dove’s, fragile yet deeply rooted in peace.

Let the walls crack, let the doors creak, let the window grills rust. If only that home could hold its people gently, whispering, “You’re safe here. You’re known.”
Because on some nights, even silence feels too loud. And the only lullaby we hear is the question — how far is death, how far is death?

But death doesn’t come when you need rest, just like love doesn’t always arrive when your heart is ready.

So I wait . Not for a prince or a palace, but for a corner of the world where I can finally breathe without pretending. A home that understands my quiet. A home that doesn’t ask me to be more than I am.

Maybe one day, I’ll find it.Or maybe I’ll build it , out of hope, memory, and a thousand unspoken words.