Bo and Ao’s bedroom is a mess. The bed is unmade, clothes litter the floor next to it. When I walk Ao over to the laundry hamper, they think about doing something about its worrisome state before deciding against it. You can find similar signs of apathy all over No Longer Home. Rotting fruit in a bowl. Unwashed dishes. Books spilled all over a desk. It’s no surprise to find out that the house I’m exploring belongs to former students – it was clear from the moment Bo said “I feel like I’m always the one emptying the bin”, echoed, not much later, by Ao’s “I always forget to recycle the empty toilet paper rolls.” The familiarity of it all makes me shiver.
I warm to No Longer Home immediately, not just for how it evokes nostalgia by showing the parts of student life I’m definitely not nostalgic for. I’m fascinated by how comfortable it is in taking inspiration from Kentucky Route Zero – from its low poly art style to the way the camera zooms in and retracts to the calming, yet eerie soundtrack that sometimes even brings the Americana-esque twang of guitars to a shared flat in London.
In conversations, I can pick if I’m the one asking the question or giving the answer, and No Longer Home switches between different points of view several times. Bo and Ao, who find themselves with the task of packing up and moving out after finishing university, are the focal points. Bo, with their meandering gait and bad posture, seems to be slipping into depression over the prospect, too tired to do much of anything. Ao, who is moving back to their native Japan, seems a little more robust, but stares wistfully at the beloved chaos all the same.