Home from home

What difference does it make if they like v-neck t-shirts or dress their pasta with ketchup? Nor it bothers if they are cat-people or wear furs, if they are vegans or meat-lovers, if they complain about the wind and don’t like your shoes. It doesn’t matter if they like boys, older women or if they haven’t made up their mind yet.

If you can call them in the middle of the night and ask how to make croissants to cure your stomachache and laugh about your terrible remedies for pain, if you can spend hours planning road trips and drinking cheap coffee that often turns into a wine-and-peanuts dinner until you check the time and ‘Shit I’ve got a 9am-class, but I wouldn’t’ve thought of a better way to spend my Thursday night’; if you can invest afternoons writing down business ideas and pinky-promising not to get married, to keep living with an open mind and unrooted feet.

These are those to be called friends, and they’re the closest idea of home you can build when you don’t have a place to call home. And a home happens to have irregular walls and chipped tiles; a home happens to be imperfect, but true things aren’t supposed to be perfect, they’re supposed to make you feel at ease, even if you’re wearing unpaired socks, even if you have questionable taste in music, flirting approach and music.

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