There was this night that I sat along the tip of the continent with two people I loved dearly. Bright reds, greens, blues, and whites exploded overhead and I heard far more American accents than I had for the past 4 months. We couldn't have planned a celebration abroad any better, and yet we found ourselves missing home.

Almost 3 months later, I miss our alternate home nearly as much.

I think more than anything, I simply miss parts of that way of life. Waking up at 8 am to a quiet apartment, making tea and eating toast, parmesan, kiwi, or whatever struck us at the moment. Trips to Cotton On, buying $9.99 t-shirts and sweaters. Wandering through Central Station, which we grew to know so well. Beautiful Bondi Market. Lingering in the bookshop, scouting for $7 classics. Taking the Opera House for granted. Singing "Forever Reign" and being utterly swept away by God. Seeing Brooke Ligertwood at city campus in a uber long t-shirt and leggings. Sitting around with Dave and Bec, watching Master Chef. Stunt driving with Russia. Those early, early days in Sydney where we spent 75% of our time at the beach.

This era has past, for even if I return, it will be so different. I look back at that life with a controlled longing, and an attitude of gratitude that can overwhelm.

It was the best of times, even during the hardest moments.