We all belong here.

Everyone tells you these are the best years of your life. I’m still wondering how that is possible. We go from small communities to large dreams where no one knows our name. We are told have fun whilst still making a name for ourselves. We search for our people whilst others playfully walk the streets laughing with our friends. It’s easy to be imaginary in a world where no one asks your name. These are the years that you can hide as you get lost in the in between no one looking for you.

i cannot let it go.

i cannot.

i hoard the scraps of my childhood diaries and the marbles i won in the fifth grade.

i can’t remember it, but it was there.

i was there.

i lived in that house,
and with those people,
and somehow i could still step outside and greet the sky and the ants that lined the pavement.

i’d awake to morning birds chirping and feel as though i belonged there,

on the plastic chairs in the backyard,
in the back room,
at the dining table.

and yet now i don’t.

when did it all change??

when did the six seats turn into five??
when was the last time i set out the cutlery??
when did i stop giving my mother my favourite fork, the one with etched flowers??

i don’t know,

i don’t know anything.

and yet i clutch at the strands of what remains.

i so desperately severed my ties to that place-
sawing off the last piece of evidence that i was even there at all.

i cannot let go of it.

i collect the strings off of the grass and tuck them neatly away.

they sit with the scraps of my girlhood in the back of my closet.

my marbles,
my diaries,
and now the frayed tethers of my childhood home.

I still remember the first time I saw the sunset here. I needed to finish an assignment of observing things under the sunset for my undergrad first year course. I invited a friend to go with me to the St Kilda pier, we sat there, and I had to listen to him talk about his judgements and biases towards other peers because I was too scared to go alone, I didn't want to go there by myself, it seems too sad and pathetic to go there alone. But when I was there back then with him, ironically, I felt more alone. So dissociated that I wanted to escape.
Over the years I've grown my interest of watching sunsets, I seemed to feel used to watching it alone because I can bear the loneliness with only myself, but I couldn't bear it when others are around, it feels much worse.
I lived in a West-faced apartment with a big balcony in 2023 where I almost can see the sunset every day, no matter sunny or cloudy weather, I took photos of the sunset when I can remember and plan to make them into a video that represents this unique short period of time which I feel more lonely than ever, but the sunset actually helps, it's like a special remedy. It makes everything more hopeful, I gain the courage of staying with the feeling of loneliness through the few minute process.

I pushed the alarm with the grace of a sleepy sloth, fully prepared to drag myself out of bed and face yet another dreary school day. But then—cue the magic words—Mom’s cheerful voice chimed in, “Wake up! Your summer holidays have begun! We’re off to Grandma and Grandpa’s today!”

Instant energy surge. I leapt out of bed as if the floor were made of trampoline springs. Just like that, the suitcase was zipped, the snacks were packed, and the car smelled of ripe mangoes, travel excitement, and unfiltered childhood joy. June meant sticky fingers from devouring mango pulp, long train rides with window-seat battles, and grandma’s bottomless jars filled with homemade treats that mysteriously never ran out.

It was the season of chasing dragonflies, collecting pebbles like treasure, and sneaking spoonfuls of pickles from the ceramic jars on the terrace. Grandpa's stories were an endless loop of legends and life lessons, always ending with a wise smile and, “Back in my day…”

The ceiling fans whirred above us like sleepy helicopters, lulling us into afternoon naps on cool floor mats. Nights were reserved for rooftop star-counting contests and mosquito-chasing marathons. Every day was soaked in sunshine, laughter, and the gentle hum of a simpler time.

Cut to 24 years later.

My alarm goes off. I’m still reluctant to get up—some habits are eternal—but now two little faces peek in and whisper, “Mumma, today’s the start of our holidays!” I smile, a deep, nostalgic smile, the kind that touches the heart like a familiar old song. It's June again.

Now, I’m the one folding clothes, triple-checking chargers, and yelling, “Don’t forget your toothbrush!” The suitcase never closes on the first try, and the car, once again, is filled with the familiar aroma of mangoes and anticipation.

We play “Who spots it first?” just like I did with my cousins. I pack games for the kids, but I know they’ll abandon them soon for their Nintendo, and I remember myself running barefoot in the courtyards and playing hide and seek  and long lake walks.

Mom still makes her legendary family favorites.Dad still insists on showing everyone the old photo albums, now more fragile than before. The kitchen still bursts with the sound of ladles clinking against pots, and the clock ticks slower somehow, as if June itself doesn’t want the moment to pass.

As the journey unfolds, I glance in the rearview mirror at my giggling children. Suddenly, I’m ten again—swinging under the trees, arguing over board games, and believing that Grandma’s cookies and crochet patterns could solve world problems.

June isn’t just a month. It’s a golden time capsule, a beautifully bound diary of memories that smell of sun, sand and stories. In fact, all my writing skills will run out trying to capture the memories of all these years.

As the proverb goes, “Time and tide wait for no man,” but thankfully, June always waits for me—with open arms, mango-stained smiles, and the heartwarming comfort of coming home.

‍