“家”的定义是什么呢？

    我脑子里真正的“家”，是小学期末一书包的奖品；是粉色花卉图案的柔软地毯；是透过薄纱窗帘散射进来的冬日阳光；是每周三和小伙伴一起在家里拍摄不明所以的“微电影”；是我书桌抽屉里自己画的、颇具古早日漫风格的”真珠美人鱼“角色纸片；是电视机里播放的东森幼幼电视台；是好朋友手链和手指玩偶。那是我将永恒怀念、再也回不去的家。随着年岁的增长、它渐渐变成了像素越来越模糊的梦境游戏；我充满依恋地四处寻找，但是带不走回忆世界里的任何一件物品。我冲着那时的我呐喊，可是她听不见、也看不见现在的我；我看她自顾自地玩耍，我看她无忧无虑地生活；游戏的时间永远地停住了，我遂被判处永远将其怀念的无期徒刑。

    之后的“回家“，都不再是回“家”。这些年我回家的次数不多，大多数时候是不愿意回去。这些年来的许许多多个家、在不同地点、国度的家，于我而言都是长相相似的牢笼和剧场。多少个夜晚我曾暗暗许愿，终有一天要摆脱这一切，到没有人认识我的世界重新开始新的生活。是什么时候开始，一切都悄悄地变化了呢？是什么时候开始，我拥有了第一个不可告人的秘密呢？每次回家，我便悄悄收起我原本的模样，变成我希望被看到的模样。我换上相应的戏服，戴好我的面具，深吸一口气准备开始这场日夜不停、长达几天到一个月的写实表演。而每次关上自己房间的门、我的演出迎来短暂的中场休息。这个时候我终于喘一口气、用无声的方式在脑内和小狐倾诉这次的表演心得，而小狐则会对我加以指点，使我的演技不断精进，然后长叹一声，我们彼此偷偷祈望一个戏剧永久落幕的未来。

    回家，

    回不了家。







    What does it mean to have a place called ‘home’?

    In my heart, home is a collection of vivid fragments: a backpack heavy with prizes on the last day of primary school; the soft pink flowers on a faded carpet; winter sunlight filtering dreamily through sheer curtains; Wednesdays spent filming mysterious ‘mini-movies’ with friends around my bedroom; a drawer of hand-drawn anime characters from the early days of Mermaid Melody Pichi Pichi Pitch; the soft hum of ETTV YoYo channel on the TV; friendship bracelets and tiny finger puppets. This was the home I’ll always ache for, a place forever out of reach. With time, it has blurred, becoming a distant world with softened edges, pixelated like a forgotten dream. I search for it, longing to carry some remnant with me, but nothing from that world can cross over. Sometimes I call out to the child I once was, but she can’t hear me, can’t see the adult watching her play. I see her, blissfully unaware, living in her own bright world. The clock in that world has stopped, and I am left with a lifetime sentence of yearning.

    Since then, every return ‘home’ has felt more like a departure. I haven’t gone back often; mostly, I’ve avoided it. Every ‘home’ I’ve known since—scattered across cities, countries—feels like a glass cage, a silent theater where I play a part. How many nights have I wished to escape, to start fresh in a world untouched by my past? Somewhere along the way, everything shifted. When did I begin to carry secrets? Every time I return, I fold myself up, carefully concealing who I am, stepping into the role I know others want to see. I dress in the costume, affix the mask, take a breath, and step into the unending realism of days—sometimes weeks—of performance. Behind the closed door of my room, the act pauses for a moment, just long enough to exhale.

    There, in the quiet, I confide in Little Fox, sharing secrets too heavy to hold alone. Little Fox listens, offering a silent comfort as we both wait for a distant day when the curtain might fall, and the performance finally, mercifully, ends.

    Home.
    Yet, never truly home.