Nowadays, I wake up in one of two ways: I wake up wanting to hop on a plane to Norway that very morning or wake up being utterly terrified of leaving. Today, I was more of the latter.

I had my eyes closed, even though I had been awake for awhile, just listening to the sounds of the house: my mom washing dishes downstairs, my dad and brother chatting in the kitchen, the bell-like jingling of my dog’s collar as she explored the house – I realized in that very instant that in a little over two months, I wouldn’t wake to these familiar sounds. Suddenly, images of myself alone on the plane landing into Oslo crept into my head. At that moment, the mere thought of stepping away from everything I’ve ever known into cold, wide abyss called the unknown terrified me. I was reminded just how precious every day at home was to me; the thought never leaves my mind with my flight date drawing nearer.

When my mom fusses or nags over me, I let her without grumbling. And when I do get annoyed, I say it out loud and we end up laughing over it. I savour every bite of homecooked food, feeling my mother’s love inch down my throat to my stomach.

When my brother barges into the room like Kramer from Seinfeld, I let him babble. I retort back with amused comments and keeps going on and on about what he loves most: talking about things he’s read or heard about online (mostly to do along the lines of video games, movies, and technology).

When my dad asks the rare question or comment to me, I answer and make small talk. We never talk about anything and he’s never been a man of showing his affections in words. But on the days he picks me up from the skytrain station or when he asks me if I’m back after I’ve come back from work for a good hour, I dig deeply into what made him say these things to me. Small talk, routine greetings, and a willingness to fix anything that breaks on me – it’s through these actions that I feel that my dad cares about me. That and what I hear from my mother.

When I hear my bedroom door quietly open and hear the pitter patter of muffled little footsteps on the carpet, I shuffle over in my bed and let my dog snuggle up next to me. I give my dog a big smile when she comes running to the door to greet me when I come home, and balance her on my lap when I’m sitting in front of the computer.

There will be other little things I miss at home: from just sitting silently in the living room on my own with a cup of tea to walking around my neighbourhood to take in the fresh air. So here I am – at home but yet already homesick – before I’ve even said my good-byes.

One year is a long time.