Feels Like Home Book Novels & Stories

We're building a home. When I was a child, I thought that the house is the home. I thought home is a place because I always hear from them that there's no other place like home.But for me, home is a feeling. The feeling that drives you to be free, to rest, to continue amidst of all the chaos. I've been searching for that feeling. Never in my life, I felt being close to home. I always need to act okay. Act fine when I'm not and lie about the way I feel.

She said she wanted to be working where I could see her, which is her specific way of saying she wanted to be where I was without requiring anything of me, which is a thing I did not know I needed until she did it. The building is doing something in these last weeks that it has not done before. It is like a home. Not a safe floor. Not a defended position. Not a building I moved into under a contract and left with a suitcase after three years. A home. With the specific texture of a place where multiple people have decided to be, voluntarily, in the same space. At four in the afternoon Bastien puts his book down. "Tell me what you are thinking about," he says. "The shelf," I say.

Both of them went home. The word—home—had a weight now that it hadn't had in chapter one. It had been the thing Elijah had missed when he'd arrived at the penthouse, the thing he'd been homesick for in the grey marble and the cedar and the twelve hundred square feet of silence. He'd found it again in Brooklyn, in Dani's kitchen and the brownstone smells and the neighbourhood that knew him. And then he'd found it here too, which had been unexpected and was now simply fact.

And yet, it was also undeniably alive, filled with the energy of the people who called it home. Jaydon’s house was next in line, a fact that still boggled my mind. How could anyone live in a place like this and not feel like they were constantly on display? It was the largest home I had ever seen, and even though I had been here before, the sheer scale of it still took my breath away. I could not help but wonder if I would ever feel truly comfortable in a space like this, or if I would always feel like a guest, waiting for someone to tell me I did not belong.

Rex looked at the house for several seconds before smiling. “It has a beautiful atmosphere.” “It feels…” He searched for the right word. “…like home.” I looked at it quietly. “It really was.” I whispered. “My first home.” The spare key was still hidden beneath the flower pot beside the porch. I laughed softly. “Some things never change.” I unlocked the front door. The familiar scent of old books, polished wood, and lavender greeted me almost instantly. It felt as though time had stood still. Rex walked in behind me, looking around carefully.

“I…I said goodbye and turned to leave. In my head, I thought that I was going to go down to my… home.” “Why is that a bad thought? This is your home.” “But is it? I mean, I don’t really live here. I stay here. There was always an expiration date. We knew that. I don’t even have a window. So why does this feel like a home?” “Well, first off, your idea of a home is warped. Home is not where you lay your head or where you hang up your clothes. Home is with family, where love is. Home is anywhere that you feel safe, loved and secured. Your home is with me. If that is in a palace or in a panic room. I am your home. I make you feel safe, loved and secured.” Waylon walked over to me. Grabbing my ha

It’s one of those self-help books, the kind people like to pretend they don’t need but secretly read every morning before their third cup of coffee. “How to Align Your Life”—yeah, I’m sure Clarice has read that one cover to cover. I glance around again, taking in the total lack of chaos, the utter perfection of it all, and something unsettling hits me. I feel like I shouldn’t be here. Like this apartment is too much for me to touch, let alone live in. There’s an order to everything, and I’m… out of place.

I can't wait to see them. *********************************** Hours has gone by and we are in a car heading home. Home. Gosh this is intriguing. A place I have always wanted to run away from. A place I cried countlessly and prayed countlessly for Hunter to come and rescue me from is now a place I call home. This is weird. Well not the place. But the person. The person is my home. He makes me feel like home. The boss is my home. I feel him take my hand in his and bring it to his lips. He kissed on it smirking at me.

The demented house I lived in before Dad killed me was the same house I was looking at. But at the same time, it wasn't the same house. The house felt different. Maybe it was because of the family that lived in it. They loved each other and the house must have eluded the same love that they gave. I did not feel completely restless or pissed at being there. I actually felt at peace, it felt like home and I just wanted to turn around and ask Rebecca's mom how she did it. How did she make a place feel as home to a complete stranger? My mother was great and warm at heart but she never knew how to make the house that I lived in feel as home.

Toward possibility. Toward something that felt like home.