Home is where you truly see me. Not just the version I iron out for the world, but the one that drags in with mismatched socks and a tired laugh, waiting for the kettle to boil. Sometimes, I think about how rare it is to feel that kind of soft attention, like someone’s eyes know all your favorite colors without you saying a word.
Last week, after a long day, I dropped by Jordan’s place. He was already in his kitchen, humming something old and sweet, and without a word, he slid a mug of ginger tea across the counter to me. No questions about my mood, no poking at why my shoulders were up around my ears. Just that mug, warm and steady, and the space to breathe.
There was something in the way he looked at me—like he saw the whole of me, the tired and the bright, the parts I let slip when I’m with family who don’t always catch my full self. I didn’t have to explain anything. My queerness, my Blackness, my odd little habits—none of it needed translation. We just sat, letting the steam curl up between us, and I felt myself settle.
It’s a small thing, being handed tea without having to ask, but it’s also everything. A quiet sign that I belong, right here, just as I am. Home is sometimes a person, sometimes a moment, always a feeling. And in that kitchen, in that gentle silence, I remembered what it is to be truly seen.
For me, belonging looks a lot like ginger tea and a friend who knows how you take it.