You are home

No I’m not.

Chrysanthemum Corday stood awkwardly at the side of the highway. He eyed the billboard that peered over the trees, a yellow lettered message declaring: “You are home.”

On it was a photo of businessman with glasses, joyously pointing at the slogan, showing off his suit with the logo on it.

Chrys turned his head to see the wrecked SUV behind him. The hazard lights were still blinking despite the front being rammed into tree.

Chrys stared at the traffic on the other side of the road. Cars slowed down just to get a view. Next to the car paced a Turkish girl with her hair in a bun, phone to her ear as she awaited an answer. Emira looked at Chrys and gave a curt nod before focusing on her call. He rubbed his eyes.

How the hell did this happen?

The billboard watched. You are home, it chanted, offering its whimsical condolences and ignoring the stakes of everything.

It doesn’t matter if Emira may miss orientation now. It doesn’t matter if this was the easiest way for her to get to school. It doesn’t matter if her parents are close to cutting her off for majoring in painting. At least you’re home.

At least you’re home.

And Chrys sat on the grass and hugged his knees. There’s no car to drive, so there’s no use walking around and waking up. No use rationalizing any of this.

I don’t belong here.

I’m not home.

What the hell am I even doing here?