In a warm embrace and gentle affection, I find myself returning to familiar memories. They carry me back to an era I once cherished. Everything is laced with nostalgia— the smell of my mother's whipped butter and cakes baking in the oven, the comforting growl of my father's old engine, weary from countless roads yet faithful enough to keep going, the classic chaos of my sibling's arguments filling the living room, doors slamming in rhythmic defiance, and our family cat meowing persistently outside, certain that someone would eventually open the door. The memories remain crisp and vivid, as though they belong to yesterday. Somewhere along the way, something changed. I cannot tell when, or how. Everyone seems certain of who I am, except me. They call this place home, yet I often find myself gasping for air within its walls. People mistake it for an ilness, but there's no receipt to keep, no appointment to attend. So I call it a sadness with no name, because I never learn ...