When I was little, home meant the house I drew in crayon on white printer paper, the one that was supposed to look like the place I lived in. Home meant where I came back to after school every day to eat my snack and do my school work. But now more and more I find that home is such a different concept. Home is not where I sleep most nights, it is not the house with a family who never talks. Not the place I pretend I’m fine and smile so they won’t hear the truth rattling behind my teeth. Home is my best friends in the whole wide world, laughing with them so hard our stomachs hurt. Home is the bookstore I go to every day after school to study and read. Home is my dog with her toothless grins and wagging tail. Home is all the music I listen to when I’m sad. Home is drunk and camping by a lake with the people who make you feel less alone. Home is not a house, it is everything else.