The lock snicks open and the door swings inward to reveal my solitude for the next twelve hours.

Snapshot: me standing over an open cake box, digging another fork (or spoon, whichever is clean) into a chocolate cake, dinner for the second night running.  Snapshot: me locking myself in the bedroom before I go to sleep at night, still afraid of what might crawl out of my full-length mirror in the dead of night.

All is quiet, constantly, except for the muffled thud of doors closing in hallways around my apartment.  I may not speak to another soul before going into work again the next day.  Occasionally in the mornings, I perform a morning vocal check just to make sure my voice hasn't gone all adolescent-boy overnight.

I won't miss the humidity in the air or the low-hanging clouds that always threatened to burst.  I won't miss the security of knowing where the best gas stations / breakfast spots / lattes are found.  I won't feel homesick for the rough and tumble swampland and kitschy culture that I grew to appreciate and love.  And I will not cry.

I'll comfort myself with TV reruns.  And blogs.  Your blogs that read to me of home and of feeling nestled in a place where I feel known, embraced and accepted.