This Must Be the Place

On People Who Feel Like Home

In the car, the windshield wipers washed away the raindrops from our view; This Must Be the Place floated out of the speakers into the air.

When we arrived, I opened the door, and stepped the soles of my sneakers onto the rainy cement. In that parking lot, I noticed the street light’s blurry-yellow echoed onto the purple sky, meeting the moon’s gorgeous glow. 

Inside the Vietnamese restaurant, between bites of fresh rice noodles and slurps of the golden-brown broth with a savory depth, we chatted about friendship; ours, but other ones, too.

Then, my friend told me about how hard it is for him to connect with others, especially other men. It’s weird and awkward, he said. I listened, nodded, and squeezed more hoisin sauce, Sriracha, and lemon into my giant bowl filled with pho. Steam hovered above it, while I watched the light from his eyes slowly dim.

He talked about how he hates getting to know new people. How uncomfortable all of it is. How much work it takes. How he doesn’t like to get close. His voice deflated. And it is a lot, I know. And it is scary, I know. And he likes to avoid, and hide. This, of course, I’m familiar with, too. At that moment, I think I felt my heart break twice; first, for him. Then, maybe, a little for me.

And so, I looked down into my bowl; as if I were looking for answers, as if it were some Magic 8 Ball, instead of just soup. Then I sipped more broth, and let it warm me up. This made me smile to myself because it reminded me of home. Not my home, but a home; the home of the friend who first introduced me to that healing balm of a soup.

My mind drifted back to those days, lounging on that couch; the leather one that always felt 15 degrees colder than anywhere else in that house, making it necessary to be bundled up in some blanket. Their small dainty dog curled up cozy next to me. Her silent and serious father sitting in the living room, and her always chatty and cheery mother cooking in the kitchen. The fragrant aroma of homemade pho filling that house. Freshly sliced fruit on the table. And the tonal rising and falling of a mother tongue I didn’t know, always in the background. 

I thought about how comfortable it all felt; how it all felt like home, even early on. But it wasn’t just about that space, though. It was also about the shared space between us; it took time and intention to cultivate how safe it felt to open up, to be seen, the ease and invitation for both of us to just be, whether in laughter or in tears. Then I thought about the way my friend’s head fit perfectly when placed on my shoulder. A thought that makes me achy. She was once home too.

But how does a stranger even become a home? How do you know when a stranger will become a friend? Sometimes, I like to think I know, even when a first-time conversation starts off clunky. Some people immediately feel like home, or they don’t, or even feel like they could be one, maybe. Something just feels familiar, like they could have always been there, like maybe they should have been. Some things in each other just seem to make sense. It’s a rare thing, really.

I can see it in those unexpected moments when there’s an earnest eagerness to know and be known, beyond the surface; there’s a deep desire, to listen and to share; a genuine invitation letting me in. And even when it’s scary, it still somehow always feels safe, and they make the effort to show that it is. And I bet their head would also fit perfectly when placed on my shoulder too.

I looked across at my friend, while he told some dumb joke I can’t remember. After I laughed, he talked about how it’s so important for friends to get each other’s sense of humor. I agreed. I’ve always thought there was vulnerability in shared laughter. And so, maybe, even I feel a little like home too. And how beautiful is that?

Outside the restaurant, I looked at the stars and thought about my shared constellation of moments with others. And how very few times, with some people there has existed some gravity I can’t explain, like between us was not just a moment, but more like, together, we created some sense of place, and those people felt, to me, like home.

And it amazes me how even after some people go away, in whatever way, and they become like ghosts; somehow, some people, like some places, will always be home to me. Sometimes, I really hate that. Because I know, it’s there, with them, where a part of me will always, quietly, want to be.

---

Hi friend,

I appreciate you reading This Must Be the Place.

I’d love to hear from you— what are you thinking and feeling ?

If you liked or resonated with anything here, please let me know in a comment.

And to help support me and Sunday Candy, consider clicking that tiny heart and hitting restack to share with others.

Stay Tender,

Sandra