The one who no longer knows where she comes from

Sometimes you wake up feeling like you're missing a piece.
A time zone out of sync in your head.
A forgotten word in your native language.
An emotion that comes from elsewhere.

You are here, very present in your new life.
And yet, a part of you still seems suspended somewhere—between two continents, between two lives.

This is what no one says too much when we talk about expatriation or immigration:
It's not just about changing countries.
It's about changing versions of yourself, without always knowing which one is true.

There is the one you were “before”, there, in your country of origin.
A grounded, familiar version, framed by a familiar setting.
Then the one that you are “here”, in this life that you have built elsewhere.
And the one you become—blurred and moving.

Sometimes these three versions coexist. Sometimes they clash.
Sometimes you don't know which one to embody.

You live between two time zones, literally.
When you go to bed, at other people's houses, it's morning.
By the time you think about calling, it's too late.
You live with people you love… from a distance.
You live in a kind of permanent gap, between nostalgia and adaptation, between past and present.

You don't feel completely from there anymore.
But you may never be completely from here either.

So you figure it out. You learn to exist without a fixed territory.
You build an inner home, which you carry with you like invisible luggage.

Sometimes you wonder what it's like to have deep roots.
Having a family home, seasonal habits or landmarks that don't change.

But you also know that you could never completely go back.
Because you grew up between the lines.
Because you have become someone impossible to fully translate.
Because you are rich in all this vagueness.

It's not that you're lost.
It's just that you're moving.
Adapting.
Simply alive.

And maybe that's your anchor:
Not being from just one place.
But to be full of worlds inside.