In a corner of a garage, packed neatly (or not-so-neatly) into a selection of bags an boxes, sit all of my worldly possessions. Well, most of them anyway. It seems strange, looking at this pile of things, knowing that this pile of stuff is essentially a physical manifestation of a person’s life.

Across a bridge, about an hour away from the pile of stuff, is a now-empty room. The room currently belongs to no-one, but a trace of someone remains. Maybe a stray hair if you look hard enough. Definitely some marks on the wall that weren’t there before (I had habit of sitting at my desk and resting my feet on the wall – no amount of Flash Magic Erasers could quite get rid of the marks). The four walls used to be home to an ever-growing assortment of photographs, but now they are bare (apart from, of course, the newly acquired marks). The pile of stuff used to fill the room.

The owner of the stuff and the ex-owner of the room is me. And I am terrible at leaving. In fact, I hate it.

In 2018, I packed up my belongings and moved them across the globe. Then a year later I moved them all back, only to move them once again a month later. And that is life, I suppose, moving from one place to the next, then doing it all again every so often. But for some reason, it rarely gets easier. At least, not for me.

It’s weird because I always feel excited when it comes to moving to the next place. In a couple of months, I’ll be packing again to move to France – and I honestly can’t wait. But I’ll miss my old house, just like I still miss my parent’s apartment in Japan and my room university halls.

A snail shell without a snail is not a snail. A house without belongings and the people who own them is not a home. Nonetheless, I’ll miss the house. I remember moving in vividly. I remember my housemate’s new (at the time!) boyfriend who I had never met before opening the door when I arrived and feeling thoroughly confused. And then a whole year’s worth of memories after that. Maybe it’s the people, and the scenario, and the setting that I’m missing, not so much the house.

This blog post idea was a lot better when I was in the shower. Unfortunately, I cannot take my laptop in the shower, so I am simply trying to get across all the thoughts I had while washing my hair. The point is that I’ve moved out of my second house, which is the first house I ever lived in without my family (I don’t think halls count, they’re a weird in-between). This makes me sad and reflective, so I needed to type it out, even if it’s not the sort of blog post I usually write.

For now, I’ll be trying to turn my head to the future, as I’ve still got a lot to sort out before I can move to France. I’ll miss that little eight-bed home in Cardiff. My studio apartment in Montpellier won’t quite be the same – but it will be new and just as scary and exciting as when I arrived at my old house for the first time. I mean, sure, my housemate’s boyfriend won’t be the one opening the door but I’ll have a new tale to tell about moving in no time.

I hate leaving places, it’s hard. But I do love arriving.