Maybe this is bad from a patriotic perspective. Maybe someone will say, "How can you let go of your roots so easily?"

But Europe has done a strange thing to me.

I stood on the embankment in Lisbon, the Atlantic wind blowing through my hair, and suddenly realized: the world is much larger than I thought. It doesn't fit into one country, one language, one smell of my home yard.

I walked the narrow streets of Prague, where the lanterns burn as if especially for lovers, and I felt something quietly shift inside.

I was drinking coffee in a small bakery in Porto, where the owner smiled wordlessly, and suddenly I caught myself thinking: what if home isn't a point on a map, but a state of being?

I'm no longer afraid to imagine that one day my new home will be somewhere completely different. Where the morning smells different. Where the neighbors' language will be foreign, but warm. Where I'll choose the walls I want to stay within.

This isn't a betrayal.

It's simply a confession: the world is too amazing to spend my entire life looking at it from a single window.

And I'm curious.
I'm very curious about where my next home will be.