“Returned,” I said. “I’m Claire.”
“Noah.”
Growing up together meant seeing every version of each other—angry, quiet, hopeful, disappointed. When couples toured the home, we never bothered hoping. We knew they wanted someone easier. Someone without a wheelchair. Someone without a file full of failed placements.
We made a joke of it.
“If you get adopted, I get your headphones.”
“If you do, I get your hoodie.”
We laughed, but we both knew no one was coming.
When we aged out at eighteen, they handed us papers, a bus pass, and wished us luck. No celebration. No safety net. Just the door closing behind us.
We left together with our belongings in plastic bags.
We enrolled in community college, found a tiny apartment above a laundromat, and took whatever jobs we could. He did remote IT work and tutoring. I worked coffee shifts and night stocking. The stairs were terrible, but the rent was cheap. It was the first place that felt like home.
Somewhere along the way, our friendship quietly became something more. No big confession. No dramatic moment. Just the realization that life felt calmer when we were together.
One night, exhausted, I said, “We’re basically already together, aren’t we?”
