Nina deGuzman ’25
When they walk into the room, it is as if the air itself shifts, the world softens. A wave of warmth rolls over me, a lightness I didn’t know was missing. It’s not a sudden thing—it is more like the quiet hum of something familiar that was always there, but hidden beneath the surface. Their presence fills me, calms me, like a missing piece I never realized was gone. I feel whole, not because they complete me, but in their company, I remember that I am already whole.
But when they leave, the world presses heavier, it is suffocating. The silence stretches wide, and I feel its weight—a hollow space that nothing seems to fill. It is not loneliness, but in a way, an emptiness, like something essential is missing. I move through my day, but without them, I am adrift. The happiness that came so easily with them feels distant, like a song I once knew but can no longer recite.
Even in their absence, I carry them—in their laughter, in their touch, in their warm scent. It lingers in the corners of my mind, a warmth that still holds me. But it is not the same. The happiness is quieter now, a memory that does not quite fill the room. I have learned that home isn’t a place, but a feeling they give me—a feeling that stays even when they are far.
I am learning that I am not complete without them. Their love, their joy—it does not vanish when they do. It shifts, settles in, and I carry it. The happiness they gave me is still here, even if it is quieter now. I am not broken when they leave. I am enough. I am whole. I have learned that home is not where they are, but what they have given me to carry within myself.
