I wipe the fog off the mirror.

The bathroom fan doesn’t work. We’ve texted our landlord about it, and he keeps saying he’ll come to fix it, but he hasn’t come. So when we take showers, we have to open the crank window as wide as possible to let out the steam, so the mold on the ceiling doesn’t overtake the entire bathroom.

I miss home. I miss my working bathroom fan, the bathmat that wasn’t soggy. I miss being able to shower for more than 10 minutes before the water becoming cold.

I look over and see the crisp winter air battling the steam of the bathroom. My breath joins the battle. I have fifteen minutes to get dressed, do my makeup, grab my school stuff, and get to the bus stop. So I hustle.

On the bus, I listen to my sad playlist. I can’t stop thinking about home. I miss home.

I barely know my roommates. It’s been a month since I’ve moved here, to attend school. I like them, of course… but I miss my parents, my friends, my cats. I miss the sunny weather and the way my house smelled.

I barely make it to class. I barely listen to the lecture. I attend two more, same drill, and wait for three crowds of people to board the bus before I can get on one. I stand the whole ride home.

My roommates are laughing in the kitchen when I get home. I greet them. They ask about my day, and I give some bland response. I ask about theirs, and they explain their classes. I put a pot on the stove. The burner won’t turn on. With this house, it seems like there’s always something, I think unenthusiastically.  I try one..two…three more times before the flames finally explode up and around the pot. I’m boiling water for spaghetti, which has somehow become my broke-student-attending-university-meal. I stare at the noodles. My roommates talk about what scary movie to watch, and I pipe up with some dumb slasher film that used to scare my pants off.

To my surprise, they agree. We laugh about the over-the-top gore, the blood raining down from the skies, the shrieks that the female actresses give before anything has even happened. I feel a bit better. We say goodnight, and all I can think about is how much fun that was.

The next morning, I get up. I sigh about my inevitable cold shower, the freezing air coming in from outside, and riding the bus. By the time I get to class, I’m miserable again. I count down the hours until I can ride back. I’m tempted to take a taxi instead of riding the bus, even. I just miss home.

By the time I get to the house, I just want to sleep.

“Hey!” I hear my roommate shout from the living room. They’re playing a board game.

“Come play with us,” she grinned, “I need another person to beat!”

I thought about sleeping, but there was something drawing me to the living room.

“What game?!” I ask, setting my bag down and joining them.

The next morning, I get up. I’m a little less anxious for my cold shower, the bus ride, and my classes. I let the inevitable rush of cold water motivate me to get out faster, and I make a cup of coffee with the extra time. I pay attention to the lecture, and I find that with my attitude improved, I actually enjoy the subject. I decide to call my landlord about the shower, and he says he has the tools to fix it and is coming over later tonight.

And I realize… I’m starting to feel at home.

 

I wrote this story from experience, with a few of the details changed slightly, to represent that a large part of my definition of “home” lies within the people around me. I was feeling extremely depressed when I first came up to UBC, and my roommates are a very large part of why I don’t feel that way anymore. Being separated from my community back in my hometown was really jarring for me, and it took me awhile to accept that I needed to start building a new one here to start feeling at home. My house is old and rickety and has a whole slew of problems, which can sometimes be annoying, but I’ve come to like them. I’ve come to love my home.