8 years being there. In that country. It means a lot. And so little. At the same time. People don’t get it. It’s only eight years. I have been here longer. But yeh. 8 years of my existence. Here. In England. I would expect a firework. An acknowledgment. A kiss on the cheek. A bravo. I would expect everyone to stop and congratulate me. I have done fucking 8 years in a country that is not mine. A language that is not mine. I hate it. I hate it so much you have no idea. And at the same time I’m drawn to it. It’s home. It will always be home. I’m an immigrant. Even if I’m white. I’m not an expat. I am an immigrant. I don’t belong here. But I don’t belong anywhere. I belong to the place I call home. And this is home. And it will always be home.