I am going home early… I’m getting really lonely and frustrated…

I really miss my friends. I mean, I miss them a lot. It’s that kind of missing that sinks into your chest rather than just hanging around in your head. I miss those silly conversations that seem to go nowhere but end up being everywhere at once. I miss how we joke around without having to explain the backstory behind every punchline. Sure, video calls and texts help, but they fall short of capturing that vibe when you’re all in the same room and someone says something completely outrageous and the whole table bursts out laughing. I miss that comfort. I miss being known without having to put on a show for anyone new.

I miss my bed, and I know that might sound trivial. It’s just a bed, but it’s my bed. The one that knows my shape perfectly. I’ve been sleeping in places that are just fine, yet I still wake up feeling restless because nothing feels right. I want my own pillows back. I want that specific darkness of my room. Falling asleep without being aware that I’m just passing through a temporary space would be such a relief. It’s a small thing, but it’s grown into something significant.

Honestly, I’m really frustrated. Some things cannot be replaced easily. This is one of those. I’m going to have to start throwing money about and begging like an absolute cunt. But it’s worth it. Those that have not had the pleasure. Count yourself lucky. And don’t.

Sure, I can write anywhere, but in reality, I need my setup, those scraps of paper with half-formed ideas, and the unique rhythm of being in my own space. Everything feels slower right now. Ideas come to me but then stall, and I can’t chase them like I usually would. It’s like I’m working with one hand tied behind my back. This frustration has seeped into everything else. I find myself being shorter with people than I want to be. I feel restless in my own skin. I need to be somewhere that allows me to work freely again.

I’ve just struck a deal that’s going to cost me. I know exactly what I’m giving up, but I’m doing it anyway. It’ll keep me secure for a year, but it’s a trade-off that I’d rather not make. I’m not going to pretend I’m thrilled about it, but I’m realistic enough to see when a trade is worth it, even if it stings. The cost is real, but so is the breathing room it buys me. I can live with this decision, but I don’t want to keep living it from a distance. I just want to get home and start making the most of the year on my own terms.

There are stories I want to dive into, proper ones. The kind that need time, access, and the chance to sit with people until they spill out what they didn’t plan to say. I can’t do them justice from here. I keep sensing the shape of those stories, only to have to set them aside because the situation isn’t right. That’s not the way to work. I want to really dig into them. I crave the slow, patient process of uncovering what’s actually there instead of what I can grasp from this temporary place.

I want to finish writing my book. It feels like unfinished business I’ve been lugging around with me. Some parts are solid, but others need me to be present long enough to be honest with them. I can’t keep hopping in and out while my attention is split across different time zones and makeshift routines. The book needs me there. It needs me to stick with those tough chapters until they reveal themselves. I owe it that much. I owe myself that much too.

It’s been fun, as always. I genuinely mean that. There have been great nights, unexpected conversations, and that unique freedom that comes with being away for a bit. But I’m not leaving because this place has failed me. I’m leaving because, this year, the things I miss have become louder than all the novelty. Friends. My bed. The ability to work smoothly. The stories that need unearthing. The book that needs to be completed. The deal I’ve already made and now have to live with.