Every time I move, it feels as though I leave half of myself behind in that house.

I’ve moved so many times now that there’s almost nothing left of me.

I’ve also left parts of myself in schools, workplaces, and places I used to frequent—those halves, I can still gather again someday.
But homes are different. I can never re-enter them.
Whenever I pass by a house I once lived in, I feel as though the version of me still living inside is watching, waiting to reclaim what’s left of me.

This is a record—a written attempt to recover what little remains of my disappearing self.

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引越しをするたびに、自分の半身をその家に残していくような気がする。

もう何度も引っ越し、今は自分の実体がほとんどない。

学校や職場や通い慣れた場所にも半身を残して、それらはもう一度拾い集めることができる。けれど家に限っては二度と入れない。住んでいた家の前を通るたび、まだそこに住んでいる私がこちらの半身を狙ってくる。

ほとんどなくなった実体を取り戻すための手記。

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