Is home in the way I raised just my right cheek to smile at four years old or is home in how I struggle to show my teeth while smiling at eighteen? 

Is home in the way I despised Lahore’s winters at sixteen, or is home in the way his jacket still warms me at eighteen? 

Is home in the way my mother coddled me at seven or is home in the way I look for solace in strange men’s arms?

Is home in the rusty silver jhumkay my father got me or is home in the bronze payal one of the strange men got me?

Is home in the Biryani served at the stall near my grandparents’ house in Karachi or is home in the eccentric cafes of F-6 in Islamabad? 

Is home in the comfort I find in the duvet I have had since eight or is home in the way I look for a new home 8,149 kilometers away from my parents?

Your home is your stagnant safe space - not for me though. 

My home is transforming. 

The change is not always desirable. 

But, it is always a reminder of how malleable the perception of my home is.