I guess something I never expected to learn from living 1,300 miles from home is how to be missed.
Funny, huh? And a little (lot) bit strange.
I mean, who needs to learn how to be missed? Don’t we instead have to learn how to deal with missing someone? Isn’t it our own coping mechanisms that need perfected?
But I think we sometimes—no, I know from experience that I definitely did forget how to be missed.
Don’t worry. I’ll explain.
I know that my family misses me. It’s that thicker-than-blood tie that we share after living in the same house all our lives, after trying to kill each other several times, and after nearly killing anyone who tried to hurt anyone else in the clan. (That sentence makes my family sound bloodthirsty. In reality, I just exaggerate things. Call it poetic license or whatever. But we didn’t actually ever…
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