I'm not really sure if I have the courage to leave home. I promised myself that before I turned twenty-five, I'd moved out and live in a new city. Things have been comfortable here. We've had our fair share of daily struggles, but in the end, we'd always have enough.

Sometimes I'd see my grandmother stare into space and suddenly break down in tears. I'm not really sure what's going on with her, but she always pleads me to stay, not to leave on, and refrain from travelling.

I'd feel bad about it sometimes. I mean, there are things I want to do on my own, and yet the thought of her kept tying me down. But often I'd think, do I really want to go? I've had a lot of chances to fly away from the nest, and yet I always find myself coming back. So when will I take the plunge?

To be honest, I've never worked really hard before. Aside from menial chores, I'm certain I lack a lot of life skills people need if they want to live alone. I've never entertained any doubts when I'm planning my move, but somehow, at the back of my mind, this little echoing voice tells me that I won't last a month in the real world.

Maybe that's true, and that's what scares me.
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