Chapter Text
The bright red binders almost taunted me as I look at them. I still had packing to do, I really really should just push them to the side and continue getting ready for college.
But I’m ahead of schedule- what’s the harm…
Before the logical side of my mind can speak up, I push everything to the side of my desk, dropping the first binder down with a loud thump. Tubbo took great care of these letters, but they won't last a day with me. I’ve already dropped them, dented the corner of the binder, and unknowingly put them on a puddle of water.
Oops.
I open the flap of the binder, my gaze falling back to the first letter once more.
I’m not sure why reading letters is making me nervous but there’s a buzzing feeling in my stomach as I ready the heading. Eight years ago.
Woah.
I think it’s nervous anticipation, because I’m about to see how far I’ve come. If I can even read my handwriting. I look at the sloppy letters with a grimmance.
<>-<>-<>
Dear Tubbo,
Writing letters is weird. It’s your idea, and a good one, just weird.
This whole situation is weird.
I wouldn't sure that word actually.
It’s sad.
It’s been three weeks since I got into this foster home. I feel like it has the potential to be great, but it’s not.
Everyday I wake up in an unfamiliar room with a kid who doesn't like me and is also four times the size of me. It always takes me a couple seconds to remember where I am, what happened, why I’m here.
There’s one window in the narrow room, shining light directly on the door across from it. I don’t get up the second I’m awake, instead I borrow a little deeper into the itchy cotton blanket. It’s not comfortable- or even remotely warm, but it’s still a shield from the cold room of the home.
The matching twin bed across from me is empty, cueing that my roommate got up before me.
Good.
Some of the people here are perpetually angry at the world, Tubbo. They lash out at everyone and take their anger out to the smaller kids. Aka fucking me.
I hope I don't turn out like that one day.
There’s a harsh knock on the door and I begrudgingly brush off my blanket as my social worker, Natalie, pops her head in.
“Good morning, Thomas. Happy Sunday. Mind if we talk?”
She sounds so propper all the time.
I hate ‘Thomas’. Sounds like my dad saying it.
“Sure.” I mumble, wincing at the way my throat tightens in protest at talking.
If Natlaie noticed, she didn't say anything, she simply smiled. “Alright. Let's head to my office, hmm?”
Her office was a lot less of a real room and more of a small cubical pushed in the far corner, amongst a dozen other identical sections.
“So, Thomas.”
“Tommy.” I correct her bluntly.
“Tommy,” She smiled. “It’s been about three weeks, how have you been adjusting? How do you feel?”
I shrug. “Feel kinda like my mom died.”
Natalie tsked sadly. “I know, it’s hard, I know.”
Does she know? Or is that like- something she says to make me feel better?
“Good news,” She pulls out a small stack of papers. “Your files have caught the eye of a nice family, in town too. It’s a perfect first foster home. In a town you recognize with a sweet home of people.”
Her words ‘first foster home’ caught my mind, implying there would be more to come. But I didn’t pay much attention to that. My mind was reeling at the idea of even going to a foster home.
Is it like an extended sleepover? Staying with people who aren’t your parents? I mean obviously this isn't the same, like sleepovers are with you- with friends- and this is with strangers. And it's not one night that you can go home to your parents after. It’s long term. And if successful- permeate.
I’ve been listening to stories from other foster kids. We all eat together in this cafeteria looking building. I sit at a table with three other boys- both much older than me. I don't talk to them and they don’t talk to me, but I don’t look like a loser that way.
I’ve learned a lot from how loud they talk. They’re highschoolers, I’m in sixth grade. They’ve been in the system since toddlers, I’ve been in for three weeks. They talk about failed homes, bitch parents, and shitty social workers.
I think there's a reason they sit alone.
They scare me, but what else can I do?
Natalie is still talking when I zone back into the conversation. “You can meet the parents tomorrow and then give it two weeks and you’ll be off with a family! Isn’t that fun!”
Not particularly. “Yeah.” I force a smile.
Uneasiness clutched my stomach forcefully, twisting it and making me nauseous.
“You’ll be okay, Tommy.” Natalie reassured as we stare up at the house. “You’re younge, and new to the system. You’ll be fine.”
I don’t know what she’s implying by that. Something tells me I’ll find out soon.
“Let’s head inside, shall we?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Natalie smiled softly. “It will be okay.”
That wasn’t an answer.
<>-<>-<>
My phone dings as I snap up from the letter.
Tubbo 11:34am
Don't get too distracted with those letters, tommy
You ranboo and i are still driving down next week, whether you're ready or not
I frown at the messages. I know he’s right- I just don't want to pack.
Against what I wish I could do, I flip the binder closed. I finish the letter later. It can be my break reward.
Besides, I needed time to fucking process what I’ve just read.
You’re younge, and new to the system. You’ll be fine.
It’s so fucked because she is literally right. My first couple houses were my biggest shot as success. If I knew that, maybe I’d have taken it more seriously, but I didn’t. Because I was ten. How could I know?
But in hindsight, I was a bright and shiny foster kid. Just like how baby animals are cuter, so are actual babies. And sure- being a fifth grader isn't a literal baby- but my odds back then were better than as a highschooler
But I was naive, I was new to the system, I was grieving . My mind wasn't thinking about that. The future was never a big topic for younger me. Only once I was adopted my Phil did it begin to take form.
Speaking of the future- I shift the binder to the side of my desk and continue packing. I'm leaving next week with Tubbo and Ranboo, whether I’m packed or not.