The Haneda Airport is where I learn, over and over again, how to say goodbye. Even after the countless times my family has come to send me off since I was thirteen, it never hurts less. I once believed that distance would train me not to miss home, and that separation would eventually feel ordinary. In some ways, it’s true. I now know how to pack, check luggage, and walk through security without looking back too many times. But there are goodbyes the body remembers, even when the mind tries to move on.

Lately, those goodbyes belong to my grandparents, who raised me as their own. Each visit feels shorter than the last, each farewell heavier than the one before. We cry together, aware that time is not promised.

Coming back to school in 2026 began with tears and a quiet sense of regret for choosing a boarding school an entire hemisphere away from where my heart lives. Winter here feels endless—dark and unforgiving. The sharp pain of the cold air on the cheek becomes a daily reminder of the distance.

Surprisingly, winter also pulls people closer; it holds light inside. Dorm rooms glow. Hallways fill. Friendships grow through shared time indoors. Coming back to school after winter break is a return shaped by both loss and choice. My family may wish we could stay together forever, but they send me back anyway, hoping that in this unfamiliar cold, I am becoming someone worth missing.