It wasn’t just a house.
It was birthdays.
Arguments behind closed doors that ended with forgiveness.
The smell of dinner floating from the kitchen while someone laughed in the next room.
The creak in the stairs you learned to avoid when sneaking out late.

It was yours—
not because your name was on the deed,
but because your life was written into its bones.

Now it’s someone else’s keys.

Someone else parks in the driveway.
Moves through the rooms.
Changes the curtains.
Paints over the nicks on the doorframe
that once measured your height.

And you pretend you’re fine.
Because it’s “just a house.”
Because you’re lucky to have a roof at all.
Because grief like this is hard to explain
when nothing technically died.

But something did.

Something sacred.
A part of you that knew where it belonged.

Now your memories are squatters.
Lingering in corners no one else can see.
Whispering through walls that don’t know your name anymore.
You remember where everything was—
the light switch you had to jiggle,
the closet that stuck,
the window where you watched storms roll in like old friends.

You drive past sometimes.
Not to go back—
just to remind yourself it was real.

But it hurts.
Because the porch light is still on.
And it doesn’t mean you’re welcome anymore.