Part 2
Growing up together meant we saw every side of each other—hope, frustration, silence, and strength.
Whenever potential families visited, we didn’t get our hopes up. We understood what they were looking for: simplicity, ease, and a future that seemed uncomplicated. We didn’t fit that image.
So we joked about it instead.
“If you get adopted, I’m taking your headphones.”
“If you do, I’m keeping your hoodie.”
It was easier to laugh than to hope.
When we turned eighteen, we left the system the same way many do—quietly. We were given basic documents, a bus pass, and a simple “good luck.”
No ceremony. No safety net.
Just a door closing behind us.
We left together, carrying everything we owned in plastic bags.
Life wasn’t easy after that. We enrolled in community college and found a small apartment above a laundromat. It wasn’t ideal—the stairs were difficult, and money was always tight—but it was ours.
For the first time, we had stability, even if it was fragile.
We worked hard. Noah took on remote IT jobs and tutoring, while I worked long shifts at a coffee shop and stocked shelves at night. Step by step, we built something real.
Somewhere along the way, our friendship quietly turned into something deeper.
There was no dramatic moment—just a natural understanding that we were better together.
One evening, I said, “We’re basically a couple already, aren’t we?”
He smiled and replied, “I was hoping you’d say that.”
We moved forward together, one step at a time.
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