The hardest part about change was the feeling of longing and utter helplessness that crept its way up his chest.

He knew that it didn't do well to dwell on that what could have been. But Shameed couldn't help wondering what his life would be had he not been part of a family that spent every night under a different roof. A different home, a different school and a different identity. Shameed could almost understand the reason behind the subtle but obvious hostility of the students at his school. In a city like Baramulla where everyone knew everybody, a new face was never welcome. He was an outsider, someone who knew nothing of them.

Not that he had tried to change their perspective of him. He'd walked to the table at the far corner, head bent low and tried to ignore the loud laughs and giggles from the group of students closest to him. There was a time when he would let himself imagine a life where he knew someone long enough to call him a friend. Those were the early days of what he called the 'Move'. Now he just saved himself the pain and embarrassment of making a friend only to lose him the next day.

He hadn't lied in the letter, not really. Baramulla was beautiful. But it was also cold. And it wasn't the kind of cold that could be forgotten with a jacket and muffler. It was the kind of cold that suffocated you and made you wish for your home.

Shameed remembered a time when his mother was still alive. He remembered the late night checks and the whispered good nights. He remembered the faint hint of Jasmine that lingered in the house when he got back from school. He remembered the stories he would tell his mother and the way she would smile to herself as she laid the dinner.

Baramulla made him miss the home he lost three years ago.