The City Taught Me How Much I Loved the Quiet Moments

July, 2024

I remember coming home from work, tired but content, and sitting down for dinner with my parents in our small living room. We didn’t talk much—just casual small talk over the background noise of a TV show none of us was watching. It wasn’t anything special, but it was warm.

After dinner, I’d text my friends to meet at the coffee shop we visited every weekend. We’d share life updates, play games, or just retell the same old stories we’d been repeating for years. It was messy, it was loud, and somehow it was perfect.

Here I am

In the new city. Living my adult life. Paying my rent, work from 9-5, crashing by 8 PM. Rinse and repeat. It’s been six months since I moved here, and I still don’t know many people. I don’t have friends here—not the kind you can call anytime just because you got bored or the kind that would tell you the harsh truth.

At first, it didn’t seem so bad. My routine here isn’t that different from back home. I wake up, work, eat, sleep. But the difference hits when I come home to an empty room—just my bed, my messy desk, and a tangle of cables. There’s no dinner waiting for me, no smell of food filling the air. Sometimes I cook, but most nights I’m too tired, so I grab something quick and eat alone

There's no more dinner with my parents. No more quiet moments in the living room with the noise background from TV. Now, it's just me and the waitress who knows my usual order.

There is no more coffee time with friends. No more stories to repeat and laughing until my stomach hurt. Now, I drink my iced americano alone, watch the traffic outside and wonder how small things can be so emotional.

It's not that I don't have friends here. I do, I really do. But they're not my people—not the one who knows me well. Hanging with these people drains my battery, so I often choose to be alone.

I never thought I’d miss the small things this much

The quiet moments. The mundane routines. The warmth of being around your people. I guess this is what they call homesick. But for me it's not just the place that I'm missing, more likely missing the feeling of home.

Now

In the quiet of my room, in the hum of the city, in the occasional text from a friend back home—it’s not the same, but it’s something. It’s a reminder that home isn’t always a place. It’s a feeling. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.

So, here’s my question for you

What small moments are you missing right now? And who do you need to call to remind yourself that home isn’t always a place—it’s a feeling?