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I Must Belong Somewhere Page 5


  And if he did it now,

  she already knows.

  He taught her about spaces, distance—

  if only he could respect hers.

  She’s grown up without him,

  made her choice when she learned:

  Blood isn’t what makes a family.

  Love is.

  97

  Some days you unfold;

  some days you tuck yourself

  back into your cocoon.

  98

  Sometimes you feel the weight

  of another person’s love

  sink you further.

  The expectations,

  the responsibility of being loved—

  you’re not sure

  you were built for that.

  To love is to be accountable,

  and when it gets bad,

  you want all strings snapped.

  But you have been looking

  at love the wrong way.

  It is not a stone

  that sinks you down.

  Love is the anchor

  that grounds you

  when you drift off lost.

  99

  There’s power in speaking

  the words that carried you through,

  but there is joy,

  so much joy,

  in singing them, too.

  There is life in the hum,

  in the melody,

  in every tremble of your

  voice,

  and in every syllable.

  There is the music,

  and then there is you.

  100

  Give yourself the gift of hindsight,

  to be able to look back

  at a difficult time

  without panic,

  to speak of a difficult feeling

  without the fear of speaking it.

  Give yourself the chance

  to look down at the labyrinth

  that you coursed through,

  not to tell yourself

  what you did wrong

  but to embrace

  what you’ve gone through.

  101

  And then there is Lorne,

  with its strip of stores,

  coffee shops, and galleries,

  takeaway Chinese:

  dumplings the size of

  an infant’s fist.

  Young people meeting

  on the streets,

  adults in between breaks

  getting a cuppa,

  blowing rings.

  Pedestrian lanes

  heading to different directions,

  streetlights blinking,

  buskers getting your attention.

  When I think of Lorne,

  I make a silent hum.

  My lips turn, and I envision:

  home.

  102

  I like it here.

  I am mostly worried about

  where to go,

  what to eat for lunch or so.

  Sometimes I still think

  about the things that worry me so,

  but time moves differently here:

  fast yet abundant.

  The cold air sweeps me off my feet,

  but there is sunlight.

  Always sunlight.

  103

  Crimson,

  the color of your shame

  for wanting to change

  where you stay.

  Blue,

  how it runs through you,

  unable to recognize

  the country you once knew.

  Three stars

  and a sun,

  wherever you could wish upon.

  You love your country—you do.

  But you no longer feel alive

  in a place that was once home to you.

  104

  Settling—

  not accepting what is at hand,

  never what you really want—

  but s e t t l i n g:

  setting down roots,

  satisfied.

  105

  There will be thunder.

  You will shiver in the cold.

  But the clouds will roll.

  — The sun will return

  106

  They’re playing our song;

  I don’t feel the need to call

  you, out of nowhere.

  — moving on

  107

  I will replace your name with a new meaning,

  stop banning it from existence.

  No more a syllable that shouldn’t pass my lips,

  I will speak your name and deem it

  no longer a word that hurts,

  no longer a memory that haunts.

  I will give your name a better feeling,

  my own version of a happy ending.

  108

  You know when we were young and people asked, “Where do you go for vacations? Are you a city person? Or do you enjoy the outdoors more?” It took me years of traveling to learn that I like cities. I like shops. I like places to get books, coffee, food. Places to see art. Study art. I like traveling in between: observing, studying, seeing people in their day-to-day while I am on pause and at rest. I like being a tourist pretending to be one with the crowd.

  But then, I’ve also started to crave the slow life: the charm of small towns, the little shops, handmade things, local artists, odd histories. Small things that are their big things.

  The quiet life.

  The simple dream.

  Contentment.

  Maybe that’s what I’ve always been seeking.

  109

  She’s already lived

  a thousand lives,

  seen enough places

  to come back around,

  met people old and new,

  played a different role or two.

  Then she comes home

  to solitude.

  Home is wherever she goes,

  whatever she decides it to be.

  She belongs to herself

  and to whoever she chooses fit.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  with love and gratitude to

  My constants:

  Layla Tanjutco, best editor

  Reginald Lapid, best and most patient cover designer

  #romanceclass community for the motivation and inspiration, always

  KB Meniado, best beta reader!

  Cheyenne Raine

  Raine Sarmiento

  Sheila, for the nitty gritty

  Patty Rice and the Andrews McMeel Publishing team for creating book number four with me.

  Maan and Jay, for the trips and happy things.

  B and Kara, for the safe space.

  Tita Thelma, who is missed.

  Family and friends, in real life and in fandom,

  the cities that became my shelter,

  and the people who had been my home,

  Babalik ako.

  Mahal ko kayo.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dawn Lanuza writes contemporary romance, young adult fiction, and poetry. She has two first loves—music and writing—and is lucky enough to surround herself with them. She started to self-publish in 2014 with her debut romance novel, The Boyfriend Backtrack, and then proceeded to write two more books. In 2016, she self-published her first poetry collection, The Last Time I’ll Write About You, which debuted at number one on Amazon’s Hot New Releases and has stayed on its bestsellers chart for over a year, before it was rereleased as an expanded and r
evised edition by Andrews McMeel Publishing. She has been traveling in and out of her country, the Philippines, to find the next place to call home.

  You may contact her at:

  hello@dawnlanuza.com

  www.dawnlanuza.com

  I Must Belong Somewhere

  copyright © 2021 by Dawn Lanuza. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

  Andrews McMeel Publishing

  a division of Andrews McMeel Universal

  1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106

  www.andrewsmcmeel.com

  Cover and interior illustration by Raine Sarmiento

  Illustrator’s model: Iris Dijkers

  Cover art design by Reginald Lapid

  ISBN: 978-1-5248-6907-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020940641

  Editor: Patty Rice

  Art Director/Designer: Holly Swayne

  Production Editor: Elizabeth A. Garcia

  Production Manager: Carol Coe

  Digital Production: Jasmine Lim

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