Home...? Sorry, I—
I don't know how to describe it. It's peeking out the window every time a stranger knocks on the door. It's everyone talking over each other until our ears bleed. It's roughhousing, then rushed apologies. Home is the rugburn on my brother's nose — long since healed, but everyone knows it's still there. Peel back the skin and you'll see.
And then it's lying on my mother's bed, which is one of the two most comfortable places in the world. The stillness of my breath, how I've been trying to match it to hers since I was a baby (one of my earliest memories). It's incessant quotes of shows that no one else knows. It's the smell of a friend lingering on clothes. It's moss growing between—
Oh. You meant THAT home.
Well. For further reference, it's called index. Yeah, I know what's on the nav bar, they got it mixed up.
Sorry about that.