OF THE HEART AND IT'S HOME|| Capt. America.

p r e l u d e

Home is where the heart is.

I never found that line that true, people talking about how your home is where your people are.

I was with my family, in New York, but I still considered my home Malibu. That patch of cliff where my house used to be? That's my home, maybe there wasn't a brick left of it, but I would furiously defend that small piece of land as my home no matter what. I got used to New York, I learned to love it and it became one of my favorite places on earth. But still if anyone asked me where I would like to live I wouldn't hesitate a second before naming Malibu Point 10880, 90265.

I just couldn't shake that feeling off, of being a foreigner. I knew that no matter how many years went by, I would always prefer Malibu. Home was a place, home was remembering the smell of sea breeze when I opened my bedroom's window and the sound of the waves in the back as the calming sountrack of every activity.

Then Steve Rogers crushed into my life. I lived with him, fell in love, and still thought of Point Dume as my home.

And he left. I couldn't wait to return to the Stark Tower, I wanted to hear the furious traffic in the background, to see New York's skyline from my bedroom, I knew it would comfort me. I was starting to think of that tower as my home.

So I came back. And it hit me like a truck.

Everything seemed strange, alien. It did not feel how it should. It wasn't comforting, just cold, numb. Foreign. I didn't feel relieved, I felt anxious, trapped.

I found Steve's jacket abandoned in the sofa and everything fell back in place. It felt like home because Steve was there. Home is where the heart is, and my heart was not in New York, not anymore. It was somewhere else, running around the world, trying to find it's place. Trying to reunite again with a shining pair of blue eyes, next to him, where it should always be.

I guess that's why my insides remained always twisted. My heart was missing, and one cannot function properly without a heart.