Leaving is always hard. But leaving after returning is even harder. And doing this on repeat must be a special type of purgatory. The most painful thing, I guess, initially, is having to face the ghost of who you might have been had you not left at all. But then, every time you come back and then leave again, the spectrum of all those possible pasts and futures grows, and it grows heavy, and it grows fragmented. And each fragment is a blade ripping through everything you think you know about yourself, but perhaps you don’t, really. The more you do this, the more you know deep down that you are just one version of yourself, and eventually, you end up mourning all the other _yous_ that have never had the chance to actualise. However, there’s a single thought that validates my very existence every time I leave: I never belonged here anyway.