Feels Like Home Book Novels & Stories

It felt like home. It was home.

Feel welcomed to check out my other book. Much love❤

At least plenty to get me a few books for now and maybe some new clothes as I wanted. Once I got home from my shopping trip I found my mother in the living room, drinking again. I poured myself a drink and sat next to her, It was strange for me to be home again, this house didn't feel like my home. I wondered if any place even would feel like a real home to me, but for the years I had to count down until I was eighteen I knew no place would feel like home.

Just her and her suitcase and Eric standing slightly to the side with the extra key fob he'd had cut, and then the space itself — enormous and quiet and full of evening light coming through windows that ran the entire length of the east wall. She hadn't expected it to feel like something. She'd expected glass and steel and the particular coldness of expensive spaces that had been decorated by someone paid to make them look lived in. What she got instead was books on actual shelves, and a worn patch on the arm of the reading chair nearest the window, and a single photograph on the bookshelf half-hidden behind a taller book, and plants that were clearly being watered by someone who cared wheth

Home isn’t far. But it feels like it is.

Just subtly. Familiar. He turned off the engine, and for a brief moment, neither of us moved. “You realize,” I said quietly, glancing at the building, “this already feels like home.” He looked at me. “It feels like I’ve lived here before,” I continued. “Like you’ve always been here.” He didn’t respond with teasing this time. “Home isn’t about walls,” he said softly. “It’s about who’s inside.” My chest tightened in the best way.

No questions. No fixing. No pressure. Just presence. That’s when it settles into me. This is what home feels like. Not perfection. Not escape. But reception. To be received without evaluation. To be allowed without earning. To be known without being exposed. Home isn’t the absence of friction—it’s the absence of fear. We still misunderstand each other sometimes. Still misstep. Still need repair. But repair doesn’t feel destabilizing here. It feels expected. Like a natural function of something alive.

It feels like a true home, filled with love and care. "Welcome," Lola says, leading me inside. "Make yourself at home. You're safe here." I feel a lump in my throat as I step into the warmth of her house. The contrast between the destruction I left and the serenity here is stark. This place feels like a sanctuary, a much-needed refuge from the storm of emotions and chaos. I can't help but feel grateful for Lola's kindness and the sense of peace her home exudes.

A home built on stories and inside jokes, not just bricks. And for a second, something tightens in my chest. A quiet ache. Because I've never known this kind of home. I've lived surrounded by walls, guards, and order. The kind of safety that keeps you locked in, not comforted. Everything clean, polished, precise... and empty. This place feels like the opposite of that. It feels alive. "So, you know who we are and you're still here?" The voice comes from the corner, low and slightly amused.

They were wrong their whole lives - and never once realized it and it would not matter anyway Now, at 23, nine years later, here I am again - curled up in a quiet corner of Evan’s library with a smutty book in my hand - trying to make sense of this strange, second feeling of home that’s slowly taking over the first. And honestly? I think it might win. It ridiculous if I am being honest! All over one kiss, but...