Things I Didn’t Know I’d Miss

I always thought leaving home would feel like freedom—an open road, a fresh chapter, a clean slate. And in many ways, it did. But no one tells you how grief sometimes comes disguised as growth. No one tells you that in chasing something new, you start mourning things you never realized were part of you.

It started the morning after I arrived in this new city. A place with taller buildings, faster people, and streets that smelled like coffee and car exhaust. As I opened the window of my small apartment, something felt… wrong. Or maybe just missing.

It wasn’t obvious at first. But slowly, it started creeping in—the things I didn’t know I’d miss.

I missed the way the floors creaked at home, that particular groan in the hallway outside my bedroom door. I used to roll my eyes every time it woke me up at night. Now, silence felt heavier than that sound ever did.

I missed the smell of my mother’s cooking—especially the way it wasn’t just one smell but a symphony of them. Garlic sizzling in oil. Fresh coriander chopped and sprinkled. The tang of tamarind in her hands when she made chutney. Here, the kitchen smells like detergent and loneliness.

I missed the sound of my father grumbling at the TV—half-watching cricket, half-complaining about politics, fully committed to his role as the family’s reluctant commentator. Back then, it was background noise. Now, I realize it was the sound of presence, of someone being there even without saying anything directly to you.

I missed the smell of wet earth after the first rain back home. It doesn’t smell the same here. Or maybe I just can’t smell it from my window on the third floor, surrounded by concrete and glass.

I missed the neighborhood uncle who always swept his front yard at the most inconvenient hours. At 6 a.m., the scrape-scrape of his broom was my weekend nemesis. Now, I think about him often. About how his presence was proof that the world outside my bedroom window was alive and moving, even when I wanted to sleep through it.

I missed our old ceiling fan—the one that made a faint ticking noise every time it rotated. I used to swear it was going to fall on me one day. But it never did. Instead, it lulled me to sleep like a stubborn old lullaby.

I missed my younger sister’s voice drifting through the house as she sang the same song on repeat, slightly out of tune. I can still hear her sometimes—in memory—but it’s not the same as hearing her from the next room while pretending to be annoyed.

I missed knowing the name of the man who sold vegetables at the corner. And the way he would throw in a few extra chilies with a wink for my mother. “For good luck,” he’d always say.

I missed the lazy hum of the neighborhood in the afternoon. The distant ringing of a bicycle bell. The muffled chatter of aunties gossiping. The clank of someone fixing a gate.

I missed my mother’s hands. Not just holding them—but watching them work. Rolling dough into perfect circles, folding laundry with impossible precision, smoothing my hair when she thought I wasn’t looking.

And faces—God, I missed faces. Not just the ones I loved, but the familiar strangers. The man with the crooked hat who always sat at the bus stop. The old lady who fed pigeons every morning. The kids who played cricket with a broken bat in the narrow lane.

Here, in this city, faces blur past me like background noise. No one nods. No one waves. Everyone belongs to themselves.

It’s strange, really. Back then, I spent years dreaming of escaping the smallness of that life. Now, I realize it wasn’t small at all. It was specific. And specific is a kind of love.

I called my mother yesterday. She asked if I was eating properly. I told her yes, but the instant noodles in my trash bin probably whispered otherwise. She asked if I was sleeping well. I lied again. She told me, “Give it time. One day, even this place will feel like home.”

I wanted to believe her. I still do.

But for now, I sit by the window and let the memories flood in—the scrape of brooms, the smell of tamarind, the ticking fan, the chatter, the faces. And I whisper quietly to myself, “I didn’t know I’d miss you. But I do. I really, really do.”