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Home.
Defined as the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household: more commonly known as the place one goes when stormy nights roll in, the place one goes to rest after a long day, or the place one goes to seek solace during times of distress. A place of familiarity and comfort; somewhere you might think of when the trials and tribulations of life become too overwhelming.
Home can also be a lot of things: the scent of warm food being prepared, the sweet taste of sliced fruits given to you by your parents, or the bounce of a soft mattress and fluffy blanket that you fall into when you’re too tired to stay up any longer. It can be the cozy smell of your house that welcomes you after a long trip—even after a relaxing vacation, home is a place you find yourself happy to be.
Homes are one of those odd places in life. Home is a bubble of goodness and joy, even when you get into fights with your mother or brother, no other place is like it. No luxury resort or hotel can replicate the comfort of a home. Worries leave themselves at the door of your bedroom, stress melts away in the steamy mist of a warm shower, and rest finds you in the envelope of a duvet. And even during times of joy, home is something that is always yearned for, like when you get homesick during a fun sleepover; home is one of those few luxuries of life that are seldom appreciated.
But, for MC, home was never a place. From a young age, despite loving her bedroom, her bed, her ever-growing collection of stuffed animals, MC never considered her address her home.
Of course, she laid her head to rest there. She spent her time after school at the Bloomshore District playground, and ate home cooked meals at the dining room table with her family. She had a “home,” in the traditional sense. But even on sweet nights, curled up in her fuzzy pajamas with her favorite teddy bear and a good book, something was always missing.
See, to MC, home was a person.
Her protector, her comfort, her heartstay. Someone she couldn’t—no, someone she refused—to live without. The person who completed her, who knew her better than she knew herself, who loved her unconditionally. Someone who accepted her in whatever form she came in, whether that was mercurial moodiness, or sickening sweetness.
Her home was Caleb Xia.
The boy she would come home to after school, flinging herself into his arms like he would disappear if she didn’t hold onto him tight enough. The boy who bandaged every scrape on her knees, the boy who insisted on brushing her hair after every shower, the boy who held her in his arms when thunder rattled their house.
He wasn’t perfect. But he was everything to her.
From her very first memory, Caleb was always there. For a long time, there was never a day he wasn’t by her side. Through thick and thin, Caleb remained. It didn’t matter how many times they bickered over who got to shower first, or how many times she pouted for hours because he ate the last cookie in Grandma’s cookie jar without sharing, the two were virtually inseparable. At times, it seemed like they were attached at the hip; you could not have one without the other.
And from childhood into adulthood, Caleb remained a constant in her life. He was dependable and loyal. In a dizzying world, Caleb was her rock. He held her together when things were rough, and he supported her when things were good.
It was a given gift he had, one she never understood until years later, when immaturity made way for insight: somehow, he could always tell how she felt before she could put a name on it. A simple glance at her face and body language when she walked through the door after school, the way her weight shifted on her steps up the stairs, even to the rhythm of her breathing when she sat beside him on the back porch swing—any of it was enough for him to know.
It was incredible how attuned he was to her emotions.
Her most vivid memory of this was the winter when she had turned nine, and her school pet hamster had passed. She came home silent, coat zipped to her chin, eyes waterlogged with tears that she refused to let slip. She had dropped her backpack by the door and went straight to her bedroom, door shut behind her, silent.
The peculiar thing about days like these was that Caleb never asked. He just knocked on her door, entering without disturbing the peace, and sat on the floor next to her bed with two mugs of Grandma’s hot chocolate. Waiting.
Even when she didn’t say a word, he could still tell.
Ten minutes of silence passed. Then, he said simply, almost afraid to break the silence too harshly: “It’s okay to be sad about Sprinkles. He was your favorite.”
That was enough to break the strong facade she was trying to put on. The tears came hot and fast, her entire body crumbling into trembling sniffles and soft, suppressed sobs. He stood up and sat next to her then, allowing her to lean into his shoulder without a single word, and he wrapped an arm around her like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t try to fix her, or cheer her up, or tell her it wasn’t a big deal and not to cry. He let her feel it, all of it, until the crying slowed and she could breathe again.
Only then did he wipe her tears away and squeeze her tightly against his chest, stroking her soft hair soothingly, pressing kiss after kiss to her forehead. He spoke again, cupping her cheeks to look up at him.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me for a second.”
When her eyes lifted, red and puffy, lashes clumping together with wetness, he gave her that small, soft smile she’d known him to give that meant everything was going to be okay.
“You’re allowed to be sad, you know,” he continued, thumbs brushing away the tears that continued to track down her face.
“I know,” she hiccuped, sniffling again. “I was trying to be strong.”
“You are strong, pipsqueak. But strong people get to cry too.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Remember when you were six and the neighbor’s dog scared you so bad you hid in the bathroom for an hour?”
She laughed softly, nodding and sniffling. “Of course I do. You sat outside the door and told me stupid dad jokes until I let you in.”
“Just like then, I’m still here for you. Through everything. I always will be.” He leaned in to press another kiss to her forehead. “I’ve got you, pips.”
That kind of compassion was so rare to find, and she was privileged enough to have it by her side.
Caleb wasn’t just able to see her sadness—he knew the joy the same way.
MC’s happiness was infectious.
It filled every corner of any room she was in, brightening even the darkest shadows like sunlight spilling in through curtains she hadn’t opened yet. It lit her up from the inside out, until she was practically glowing, before anything could even be said. Caleb always caught it first—it consumed him in the best way possible.
The day she got accepted into the advanced art program in high school, she came home holding the letter so tightly the paper crinkled. She hardly even made it through the front door before she was shouting his name, voice cracking with excitement. Caleb appeared from the kitchen, dish towel still in hand, eyebrow quirked.
She waved the envelope like a flag, rushing to him. “I got in! Look, look! They said my portfolio was impressive—they used that word, Caleb!”
He dropped the towel and caught her when she launched herself at him, spinning her once as she kicked her legs excitedly. He then set her down, laughing as the pride rubbed off on him. “Of course you did,” he said, hugging her firmly against his chest. “I saw your art. You’re talented.”
She beamed up at him, eyes shining. “You really think so?”
“I know so. I’ve been watching you make magic since before you could hold a pencil.”
That night, she spread her acceptance letter and portfolio out across her bedroom floor as Caleb watched her ramble about the program. He sat cross-legged beside her, asking questions about every piece—why she chose to use pastels instead of colored pencils, what the bird perched on the page was thinking, how she got the blending to look so soft. He listened just as intently, taking every word and engraining it into his memory, and when she finally ran out of things to say, he pulled her into a tight side hug.
“I’m so proud of you, it hurts a little,” he admitted. “You should be proud of yourself, too.”
She hugged him back just as tightly, head rested against his shoulder. “I am! I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Back then, times were sweet. Innocent, playful, blissfully ignorant to the hardships of life.
MC never realized the luxury she had before she lost it.
Life taught her its hardest lesson in an instant. The attack came without warning, the way the worst things always did. One moment, the world was still just Sunday nights watching TV, playground swings and slides, and Caleb’s voice calling her name down the hall when he wanted her to bring him a glass of water. The next, it was fire and silence and the sickening reality that everything she had ever called home had been destroyed in front of her in a single breath.
She lost the house first. The physical one, reduced to ash and fire and splintered wood. Grandma’s kitchen table, the one that still held ripe peaches and crisp apples waiting to be eaten; the attic she hated going in alone, and the spiders that lived in it that Caleb never allowed her to hurt; the porch swing they would watch the sunset from, melting ice cream cones in their hands—all gone.
The house burned. But that didn’t matter. None of it mattered. It hurt less than it should have. The home hadn’t been the walls, or the stuffed animals, or the bed she slept in every night from the first memory she had. The home wasn’t even the memories within it.
The house had only ever been a container. Caleb had been the warmth inside it, the warmth of the only home she had ever known. Without him, every place felt empty. Hollow, temporary. Not hers.
It had been him that completed her.
They used words that didn’t fit him—words too final for someone who told her he would always come back, who had always waited for her to return home from afterschool clubs, who had always known her joy or sadness before she did.
When they told her Caleb was gone—no survivors, bodies unrecognizable, just condolences and death certificates—she felt the ground vanish beneath her. Not metaphorically. Her chest caved, her knees buckled, and for weeks afterward she moved through the world like a ghost in someone else’s body. Every quiet moment felt empty in his absence; no one to share ice cream with, no voice shouting down the hall for her, no one to catch her when she launched herself into arms with good news. The Bloomshore playground felt empty. Slides and swings were just cold plastic now. The color had been sucked from her life.
And the worst part? Every word unspoken still remained. There was no goodbye, no last hug, no final “I love you.” The gaping Caleb-shaped wound would never close.
There was no home.
She had an apartment. But her house wasn’t a home. Home wasn’t a place; home was the person who wasn’t coming back.
She learned to live in the hollow space he left behind, but she never stopped expecting his footsteps, never stopped waiting for him to call her just to hear her voice, never stopped waiting for him to come to her door and say “Hey, pipsqueak, I’m home.”
She stopped expecting joy to be infectious. She stopped expecting anyone to comfort her when she cried. She simply existed, carrying the weight of a life she would never get back.
She still never gave up on him. If there was one thing she could do for him, she was going to avenge his death. After everything he had done for her, the least she could do was not let him die in vain. She knew there was more to it—there had to be. The attack on her home couldn’t have been a heartless attack on innocent people.
She went looking for answers, not miracles.
She never thought she would see his face again until it happened.
Right there, in front of her, in the interrogation room.
MC tried to rationalize every possible outcome. Maybe Caleb had a secret twin, or a doppelganger. He was conventionally attractive in every way, it was possible that someone could look like him, smell like him, speak like him, look at her with the same eyes that held the galaxy in them. Or maybe she was hallucinating him, making features that weren’t there appear there.
Until the voice affirmed her thoughts. It was Caleb. He was alive.
She heard his voice again. She felt his embrace again. She cried in his arms, and she got to speak to him again.
From there, life did what it does best: it moved forward. This time, with Caleb in it again.
Things would never return to normal. Not the normal that MC knew before, the normal filled with immature fights over who got to sit on the left side of the couch, or the normal full of innocence and ignorance. Both of them had grown older, and the blindfold had been taken off. Neither of them were strangers to the cruel ways of the world. But, they moved forward. A new normal would be born.
A normal of misaligned schedules, late night diner dates, injuries and struggles. A normal of uncovering secrets, discovering new sides of each other, accepting each other for the good and the bad. A normal that was uniquely them.
MC learned early on in their relationship that Caleb wasn’t the same boy she grew up with. He looked like himself, maybe a little leaner and sharper, he spoke like himself, and he still loved her the same way he always did. But the ways of life knew how to snuff out sweetness. Caleb was still Caleb. Just… rougher around the edges.
She saw it in the way he stared at her like he would lose her again. She saw it in the way his eyebrows furrowed until they creased his skin, the way he smoked cigarettes after days away, and the way he slept less, and worried more. She saw it in his unbreaking, cold demeanor at work. She saw it in the way he kept everything from her.
But, Caleb noticed that MC wasn’t the same, either. He saw it in the way she had lost weight since they last met. He saw it in the way she drank more often, the way she hesitated before leaning into his touch, and the way she slumped down on the couch after long patrols. He saw it in the way she came home bruised and cut after a rough mission, and hesitated to let him tend to her.
In spite of it all, they always fell back into their rhythm without missing a step. Whether it was long hugs after long days, or sickeningly sweet late-night talks over sickeningly sweet ice cream, they always found their way back to each other. That was what she loved the most about him—no matter how much he had on his plate, he always made room for her. And in turn, she did for him, too.
Both MC and Caleb tried not to dwell on the past.
They chose to live for the future, their future. They chose each other time and time again.
The first year together flew by like it never existed. It was fragile, and new, like a freshly bloomed Asiatic apple. Caleb remained in Skyhaven, and MC continued hunting. Fleet confidentiality and association secrets hung heavy between them. Caleb was never able to give her the answers she wanted. Date nights were scarce, and nights spent together even worse, but they always ended their phone calls and goodnight texts with “I love you.”
Most nights the call came late—after a mission, after his debriefs. She’d sit on the edge of her couch, waiting for the buzz of her phone, grime still stuck underneath her nails. His voice would come through grainy sometimes, delayed by the distance between Linkon City and the floating island, but always steady.
They talked about the small things. The weather in Skyhaven, or the stray cats she fed outside her building. How much she missed his braised pork belly, and how coffee always tasted better when he made it.
These little things started to matter more than big ones. More than missions, more than the skeletons hiding in the closet, more than the nights they both had more often than not—waking up gasping from nightmares, covered in cold sweats. seeing things neither of them would speak of.
And once a month—if the stars aligned and schedules didn’t collide—he came down. One weekend, just for them. He’d arrive at her door, holding flowers and takeout, coat still crisp with Skyhaven’s sterile chill. She’d pull him inside without a word and let herself melt in his hold, arms wrapped around his waist, just breathing him in—tobacco and sterile air and underneath it, still him.
Those weekends were cherished, but delicate. They cooked together, watched old movies on her tiny couch until she fell asleep on his shoulder, and slept in the same bed until morning came. She never questioned why he preferred to hold her with his right arm, and he never questioned why she insisted on sleeping with her head perched on his chest.
However, a relationship was never without its flaws. Times where sweetness made way for bitterness hurt the most. They argued, like every couple does—his protectiveness pushing the boundary of control, her frustration reaching a fever pitch when he shut down instead of speaking. Every fight ended the same: him waiting until her anger settled, then pulling her into his embrace, apologizing against her hair until she believed him again.
They always ended up in the same place: tangled on the couch or in her bed, her head on his chest, listening to the heartbeat that proved he was real. He’d trace slow circles on her back with his hand until her breathing evened out, and her mind cleared.
Those weekends were bittersweet, too. Every goodbye hurt more than the last. He’d lean in to kiss her forehead on the train platform, whisper “I love you,” and disappear back into the sky.
But every time he left, he left something behind with her—a hoodie she could wear to sleep, filled with his scent, or a note in her hunter jacket, in his familiar handwriting with hearts and planes doodled all over it, or small money notes left in secret places for her to find and treat herself with.
The second year together felt steadier. He started teasing her again, his old boyish smile returning to his face more often. She learned how he accepted love—seldom in grand gestures, more comfortably in small acts of kindness.
They started traditions again. Sunday night movies and snacks, walks through the Bloomshore District playground at dusk where they’d sit on the swings and reminisce about the past. She memorized every inch of his body, new scars she didn’t recognize, old beauty marks she had never noticed.
His personality came back in rolling tides—gentle at first, toeing the waters like he was afraid the old Caleb might scare her off. He’d catch her staring at a Protocore report on her tablet for a little too long, then lean in.
“You’re gonna burn a hole through the tablet with your stare, pips.”
By mid-year, they had slipped back into their playful selves like an old habit they had both missed. The everyday things started to feel like home again.
He’d wake before her most mornings, slip out of bed, and come back with coffee exactly how she liked it—two sugars, oat milk, and cold foam. She’d open her eyes to find him sitting on the edge of the mattress, stroking her hair with that quiet, almost pained look that said he still couldn’t believe that she—this—was real. She’d take the coffee, pull him back down beside her, and there they would stay, tangled under the covers until her third alarm went off, trading lazy kisses and mumbled pillow talk.
The nights were softer, too. When she came home bruised or quiet from a long mission, he’d meet her at the door—no talking, no questions, just taking her bag from her shoulders and bringing her into a long hug. She’d step into his arms, press her face into his chest, and breathe him in until the tension melted away. He never asked for details. He did what he did best. Held her until she was ready, or until she wasn’t. Either one was okay.
The third year, things finally felt normal again. Laughter came easier. Silence felt safe, not tense. Distance that used to warp the fabric of their relationship—heavy with the weight of secrets, trauma, fear of everything that could go wrong—had shrunk to something small enough to live with. They were learning that love didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to be.
Caleb had transferred to a permanent Linkon City position. Less travel, more mornings waking up next to her. Every morning started the same, with warm coffee and warmer cuddles, and every evening ended the same, a long walk in the park after dinner, and small talk until both grew too tired to keep talking.
The months passed, and by late spring, the hints started.
It began on the playground swings one cool September evening. MC rocked back and forth in the plastic seat, watching as Caleb stared at the residential street beyond the fence. An offhand comment: “That yard could use some plants,” he would say.
“Yeah?” She replied, “I didn’t know you were big on gardening.”
“I know how much you loved Gran’s garden,” he said. “And I remember how much you dreamed of having your own garden when you grew up.”
She raised an eyebrow, smiling. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing.” He would go quiet for a moment, then take her hand and raise it to his lips, brushing her knuckles with a kiss. “Just that, maaaybe… I should make that dream come true.”
The idea grew from there—quietly, never spoken, just… there. He’d point out houses during drives, casual at first: “That porch looks nice. Just enough space for a swing for you to crochet on, perfect for watching the sunset too.”
She’d tease, “Planning something, Colonel?”
He’d just smile, and change the subject.
MC began to pick up on the signs. He guarded his top left desk drawer like the seven wonders of the world were in it. She noticed the tiniest things: how he would close it a little too hastily if she walked in unannounced, and he’d smile to himself afterward like he was a child hiding gummy worms from their parents. She didn’t pry; she didn’t need to. She knew him well enough to understand that whatever was inside, she already knew what it was—not something he was hiding, but something he was saving. For the right time.
The night Caleb asked her to walk through the playground, as they always did, it felt different.
It started just like every other did, a quick drive, then a short walk through the parking lot hand in hand. The sky bled pink and orange over the Bloomshore District, cool summer breeze fluttering through MC’s sundress, his fingers laced through hers.
As they approached the swings, he stopped. She thought he was just pausing to watch the sunlight spill over the slide they used to take turns climbing up.
Then he turned to her, sunset catching in his hair, lighting up his violet eyes. Both hands found hers, and he gazed at her like she was the most precious thing in the world.
“I spent years thinking I didn’t deserve this,” he started. “I thought anything I touched would be ruined. By me, by my sin. But… You taught me otherwise. You endured me, for us. You loved every wounded, evil part of me. You believed in me. Until I believed I deserved you.”
“Caleb, you’re so mushy tonight.” She joked, heart fluttering at the sudden spill of vulnerability.
He swallowed, thumb stroking her hands like he might destroy her if he touched too hard.
“You’re still my everything. You always have been.” He took a step back. “If you’ll have me,” he dropped down to one knee, reaching into his pocket. “I want this with you. I want forever with you. I want to spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to wonder if I’m coming back.”
“Caleb—!”
“MC, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” He pulled the small velvet box out, flipping it open and presenting the ring to her.
Both of MC’s hands lifted to cover her face, laughing through the tears that slipped free.
“Yes, yes, yes!” She wiped the tears and beamed, nodding rapidly. “Yes, I will.”
He slipped the ring out of its box and onto her ring finger with careful hands, then stood and caught her as she flung herself into his arms, kicking her legs like she did all those years ago.
Home finally started to feel like home again.
And eventually, the two found a home just for the two of them.
Even when all of the boxes were moved in, and the first week of being homeowners passed, it still didn’t feel real. Sunlight poured in through the wide windows every morning, making even the emptiest corners of their house feel full.
The first lazy Saturday since the move, MC sat on the ground of their unfurnished living room, rifling through boxes upon boxes of their items. Some remained taped shut, labels written in her neat handwriting: MC’s plushies. MC’s overgrown collection of stationary. Caleb’s shoeboxes full of random papers. Caleb’s years of unopened mail. Others were open, emptied out onto the ground, and scattered across the floor: mementos, random flight gear that Caleb kept from his student years, textbooks, unfinished miniature plane models, bags of Legos they never remembered to build.
Caleb busied himself in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, humming to a song MC had gotten stuck in his head after listening to it seventy-two times in one week. The scent of garlic and spice wafted through the open floor plan, filling the air with the aroma of a home cooked meal that always made MC’s mouth water. He insisted on cooking, like he usually did, though it was simple; nothing too complicated, just pasta and whatever vegetables he’d find in the fridge. Though MC wanted to order in, he said something about “seasoning the stove properly” with his goofy smile she’d fallen in love with, and she didn’t bother arguing.
MC lifted another box, cut it open with her old apartment key—of course, among the huge list of items to buy for a new house, scissors somehow didn’t end up on it—and dumped its contents out onto the floor in front of her. She set the empty box back down and sat back on her heels, rummaging through the unending void of random shit they brought with them.
She sorted through the items slowly, smiling at the memories that came back with every discovery: an old mug from Caleb’s computer science class hackathon that read ‘Being a computer scientist <is easy/> It’s like riding a bike. Except the bike is on fire. And you’re on fire. And everything is on fire because you’re in hell.’ She chuckled softly, setting it in the pile of things to keep. She picked up a small stuffed animal next, a tiny leopard, worn from years of love. She remembered gifting it to Caleb on his fifteenth birthday—she was surprised he still had it.
Every small memento, no matter how random or old, felt like a small homecoming.
As she rifled through the random items in the box, Caleb emerged from the kitchen brandishing two plates. One plate was neatly made, a perfect mound of spaghetti topped with fresh parmesan and basil, a sliced chicken breast to the side—while the other was twice the size, with twice the amount of chicken and cheese, clearly for him.
She glanced up at him as he sat criss-cross next to her, setting both plates down.
“Take a break and eat something while it’s hot.”
“I can’t. I’m too deep in organizing,” she replied, continuing to shuffle through the content of the box. She lifted up a thick manila folder, setting it aside to the ‘keep’ pile.
Caleb shifted to sit closer to her, padding through some of the items she had set aside.
“You’re really dedicated to this, huh?” He commented, picking up the same mug she already decided to keep. “Why are we keeping this thing? We have enough mugs, y’know.”
“I know, I know. But it’s sentimental. Don’t you want to remember the hackathon? I was cheering for you louder than everyone else in the whole audience.”
Caleb chuckled, “Yeah, but no. I did awful and it was too stressful.”
“Well, too bad. We’re keeping it.”
“Pips, if we keep everything with sentimental value, our house is gonna be just as cluttered as your apartment was.”
MC turned to him with a pout, eyes pleading with him to take her side.
He let out a heavy sigh and set the mug back down. “Alright, alright. The mug stays.”
“Yay!” She clapped her hands twice, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. “Okay, you finish going through this stuff. I’m going to start on the next box. I want to have it all organized and unboxed by tonight.”
“Ambitious. We still have more boxes in the bedroom and bathroom. Think we can get to all of it?”
“You know what they say, teamwork, dreamwork.”
Caleb moved the remaining items out of her way as she reached for the box labeled Miscellaneous in Caleb’s messy handwriting. Using her keys, she sliced open the tape on the box and pried open the top.
“How much stuff am I allowed to keep?” MC asked, turning to Caleb.
“Well, this house has plenty of space. Keep whatever you want, and we can sort through it again later.”
Caleb lifted up the manila folder she had put aside. Glossy printed photos slid out of the bottom of it, scattering across the floor. And as he leaned over to pick them up, he smiled sweetly. One picture was the two of them, both with party hats on and ice cream on their cheeks. MC was sat in front of a birthday cake with a lighted number six candle perched on the top layer of frosting. He put the picture on the bottom of the stack, glancing at the next one. It was a photo of the two of them at the Bloomshore District playground—an action shot of MC on a swing, teen-aged Caleb behind her pushing her. It must have been summer then, Caleb remembered that day vividly: shortly after that photo was taken, Caleb tried to use his Evol to push her higher and MC ended up flung on the ground with skinned knees. Caleb spent that whole night tending to her.
The last photo in the stack was of MC, barely a teen, at their neighborhood ice skating rink. She stood proudly in second place on a competition podium, silver medal wrapped around her neck. The camera hardly reflected how proud she was, how sparkly her skating dress was, and how perfect she was to him.
Caleb leaned over and nudged her with his elbow. “MC, remember the time Gran let you try figure skating for a year?” He asked, tilting the photo to her. “Look at you. So cute. You were so proud of yourself. I remember when I saw you land your first axel.”
MC snatched the photo out of his hand. “Give that to me! It’s embarrassing. I was never good, anyways.”
“Whaddya mean? You landed all of your jumps. You won silver in your first competition. I swear, your first pair of skates are in one of these boxes here somewhere.”
“I sucked. And I hated falling.” She shoved the photo back into the manila folder, taking it away from him and setting it aside.
“Why don’t we go skating sometime soon? I can use my Evol to help you land a triple. It’ll be fun.”
“Absolutely not. It’s summer, skating is a winter activity.”
“Sooo, we can go in the winter?”
“Still, no.” She pushed the manila folder into the discard pile, partially hoping he wouldn’t notice, or wouldn’t argue. “We don’t have to keep everything we find. That includes old, cringe pictures.”
Caleb snorted at her words, standing up to retrieve the folder from the pile.
“In your words, ‘well, too bad. We’re keeping it,’” Caleb replied, tucking the photos back into the folder and placing it next to the keep pile. “We can’t throw away these memories. It wouldn’t be fair. To me.”
MC rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to her box of items. She tipped the box sideways, too lazy to lift it properly. Crayon drawings, art supplies, and construction-paper crafts spilled across the hardwood floor like confetti. She plucked a crooked heart made of red paper, the glue long since turned brown. A giggle escaped before she even realized she was laughing, grinning brightly at the small art projects she hardly remembered making in elementary school.
“Can we keep these?” MC asked Caleb, lifting up one of the pink colored pages to show Caleb.
On it, two stick figures, one with short brown hair and one with long brown hair, dressed in blue clothing, were clearly labeled Caleb and MC. It was covered in glitter, the loose particles reflecting in the afternoon sunlight spilling through the window. In the corner was a smiling sun, and it was covered in doodles of hearts, stars, flowers, and smiley faces.
Caleb looked over and smiled, taking the sheet from her.
“Of course. I love it. Can we put it on the fridge?” He asked back, thumbs idly tracing the edges of the sheet.
“Sure!”
MC nudged the box closer with her knee, the cardboard rasping against the hardwood. Dust swirled in the sunlight when she lifted the flaps apart.
She reached in, fingers brushing something rectangular and familiar at the bottom. She pulled it out; a half-crushed pack of cigarettes, the red and white wrapper faded but recognizable.
“Oh, here is a… pack of cigarettes,” MC said as she held up the box with two fingers as if it were evidence of a crime. She handed the box over to him. “Your contraband, sir.”
Caleb glanced over from where he was untangling an old extension cord. “Oh. Thanks.” He took it, turned it over in his hand, then lobbed it gently into the growing trash pile behind her.
MC watched, tilting her head in confusion. “You’re tossing them? Why? There was only one missing.”
He shrugged, already reaching for the next item in his own box. “Yep, I’m sure. I haven’t smoked in years.”
She paused, lighters in hand now—three cheap plastic ones, two still full of lighter fluid, clacking together as she fished them out. “I thought maybe they made you feel sick or something. I’ve heard of it, ‘nic sick’, or whatever.”
Caleb’s mouth curved, small and knowing. “You were never subtle at hiding your distaste for my smoking habit. Every time I came over, you always scrunched your nose like I’d just rolled in an ashtray. And, you didn’t like kissing me afterwards.” He shook his head, almost amused. “Not worth it.”
“I see.” She dropped the lighters into the trash with a soft clatter. “I didn’t hate it that much.”
“You hated it enough,” his voice was softer, fond. “And I hated seeing that grimace on your face more than I liked the nicotine. So I quit. Health was just the convenient excuse.”
MC looked at him, lips pursed. “You never told me that was why.”
“I didn’t think I needed to.” He looked back at her, offering her a soft smile. “You mattered more than a little stress relief.”
She smiled, then nudged the cigarette box toward the trash pile with her foot. “Well, I’m not complaining. I’m glad you quit. I like kissing you without the smoke.”
He laughed under his breath. “Duly noted.”
Caleb reached over to grab her abandoned half-full box, and began to shuffle through the items in the box. Thick envelopes full of photos, notebooks, assorted cords and items.
He gasped dramatically, pulling out a small, fuzzy item that caught his eye. “Oh my God, MC, look how cute! It’s one of your first crochet projects from when you were a kid.”
MC looked over, distracted from organizing the stacks of books Caleb insisted on bringing—his “personal library” according to him, even though half of the books were pristine paperbacks she’d never seen him read.
She tilted her head, smiling despite herself as she took the tiny, lopsided plush into her hand. “Aw, it’s kinda cute,” she said, thumbs brushing the frayed threads with her fingertip. “The stitches are all uneven and messed up though. And the yarn is so frayed…”
Caleb cradled it in his palm as she handed it back to him. “Come on, look how adorable it is. A tiny apple plush.” He turned it slowly in his hand, showing her the crooked stem and the slightly asymmetrical body. “Its flaws make it better.”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered. “You’re so easily amused, hun.”
He set the little crochet apple down in the keep pile, then picked up a stack of notebooks from the bottom of the box.
“How much do you wanna bet that half of these notebooks are empty?” He joked, setting them down next to her.
Most of them were old composition notebooks, curled at the corners and coated in a thin film of dust. Some had papers torn out, some had random slips of paper sticking out. The bottom ones, all specialty journals that MC spent most of her allowance on but never used—some were campy fuzzy notebooks, some were sleek and elegant. One at the bottom of the box, covered in glitter and stickers with a pink fairy on the front, had a lock shutting the cover.
“Remember when these used to be a thing? Locked journals?” He asked, lifting and brushing the dust off of the cover.
MC snorted at it, pushing aside the ‘trash’ pile to make room for the growing pile of things she wanted to keep.
“Yeah, glad they don’t make those anymore,” she stated. “I could never find the keys for it. I probably only used it a grand total of once before I lost them.”
“I’m sure we could get it open, though. Do you wanna try?” Caleb asked.
“Absolutely not. Put it in the bin.”
Caleb leaned over and tossed it in the discard pile.
She turned her attention to the notebooks and lifted up the next notebook in the stack. She brushed the dust off, examining the cover. In her premature handwriting, along the lined cover label, it read MC’s Nightly Journal. She smiled fondly as she placed the notebook in her lap, fingers drifting across the black and white marble.
Caleb had his fingers closed around the familiar shape of the model airplane fuselage—still bent from that long-ago crash landing in the backyard. He held it up to the light, thumb smoothing the dent the same way he used to when he was trying to fix it.
He was snapped from his concern for the model when MC spoke again.
“Caleb, look at how cute this is.” She gestured for Caleb to come look.
He turned his head from the old model airplane, setting it down gently on the ground as his attention focused on her.
“What is it?” He asked, shifting to face her and look. “A journal? I thought you didn’t want me to read your journals.”
She flipped open the cover. Along the pages, her childish handwriting was scrawled on the lined paper, hardly legible.
“Well, I don’t want you to read my journal now, but it’s kinda cute to see what tiny MC was writing about back then.” She flipped the page, skimming over the random entries. “Aw, look. October 12th, Caleb is a big meanie. He ate the last slice of peach pie without asking if I wanted any. I hate Caleb,” she giggled through her words, turning the book to face him.
He picked up where she left off, “October 13th, I love Caleb. He bought me snacks with his allowance because I didn’t have any money left. Caleb is so nice.”
MC smiled wider, “God, I had such mercurial opinions on you when I was young.”
“You’re telling me,” Caleb commented, handing the book back to her as she reached for it.
MC continued to flip through the pages. With every page she turned, memories both good and bad flooded in.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, a light blue slip of construction paper dropped to the ground, fluttering against the wind resistance, until it landed on the floor.
Caleb picked it up. And though MC didn’t look at his face, she could almost sense the shift.
“You kept this?” He asked, a fond smile spreading on his face.
“What is it?” She shifted to look over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the sheet.
One Forgiveness Coupon. Good for ONE forgiveness when I get mad at you. Expiration date: Never. From MC, to Caleb.
“A ‘forgiveness coupon.’ I remember you giving me a bunch of these random things when we were young,” Caleb said, stifling a chuckle. “How often did I make you mad for you to think of things like this?”
MC smirked, humming as if she were thinking. “Let’s see… on top of the pie theft? Swing hogging, the time you ‘borrowed’ my lucky pencil and it returned with bite marks—”
“Hey, I was testing its durability. That doesn’t count.”
“Yeah, right. You were being a menace.” She poked his chest accusingly. “And don’t get me started on the cookie jar. I had to hide cookies under my bed from you.”
Caleb caught her hand, grinning. “But yet, when I asked you to share, you always did. Face it, MC. You were an enabler.”
“Only because you gave me those giant puppy eyes and pouted. Don’t think I don’t remember,” she retorted, mimicking him as she bat her eyelashes exaggeratedly. “‘C’mon MC, just one more bite. I’ll be your best friend forever.’”
He laughed brightly, “But it worked every time!”
“Yeah, well,” her voice softened, still smiling. “Touche. It did. You were my best friend. Even when you drove me up the wall.”
His smile faded into something gentler as MC reached over to take the coupon from him. “You know, I used to hate when you got mad at me. I remember spending the whole day trying to fix it. Not talking to you even for an hour was the worst.”
MC’s throat tightened. “Yeah, I felt the same. It’s hard to stay mad at you. That’s why the coupons existed,” she started. “I was mad, but I never wanted to stay mad. I just… I don’t know, I guess I just wanted you to know I’d always forgive you.”
He looked down at the paper, eyes distant for a second. “This is gonna sound stupid but… I thought about them a lot when I was away. I told myself, if I got to see you again, I’d ask you for one. For… well, for everything.”
“You can’t ask for a free coupon. That’s not how coupons work,” MC smiled at his admission. “But, in any case, you don’t need to ask for my forgiveness. You already have it.”
Caleb gazed at her fondly. He pursed his lips, exhaling heavily through his nose. “I know. But I still want to earn it.”
“Okay,” MC said, “Start by finishing unboxing everything. We can be sentimental after dinner and a nice glass of wine.”
Caleb huffed a soft laugh, setting the coupon down on top of the stack of notebooks. “Deal. But eat lunch first. Don’t let my hard work get cold.”
She pushed the piles away, grabbing her still warm plate and pushing Caleb’s closer to him.
Lunch came and went. They ate in comfortable silence,
As the afternoon shifted into early evening, their lunch bowls sat empty behind them while the organizing frenzy continued. The sunlight had now shifted, slanting golden across the hardwood floor, catching MC’s brunette hair just perfectly.
The last of the miscellaneous boxes were broken down and set aside, leaving three heaping piles of items to toss or keep.
“Amazing,” Caleb commented. “We actually finished sorting through this stuff.”
MC stretched her arms up above her head, arms and back popping softly. “I know, right? Look at us being functional adults.” She groaned heavily and stood up from the floor, popping her back as she shook out the stiffness.
“Okay, if we’re committing to the bit of being functional adults today, I should tackle the upstairs boxes. The bedroom ones are still a disaster.”
Caleb leaned back on his hands, smirking. “Are you sure? We could just live out of boxes forever. Very… Minimalist.”
“Mmm, tempting,” she started, fighting a laugh. “But I’d like to find my favorite pajamas before next week. You can stay down here and finish sorting everything. I’m going to get started in the bedroom.”
He leaned forward and caught her wrist gently as she stepped past him. With a soft tug, he pulled her back, pressing a sweet kiss to the pulse point on her wrist. “I’ll miss you. Don’t get lost up there.” He gave her hand a firm squeeze, thumbs brushing her knuckles carefully. “I love you.”
She turned and knelt in front of him, kissing him quick and soft—lingering just long enough for him to lean in. “I’ll be back before you start missing me too much.”
He let her go with a faux sad sigh, already feigning a pout. “Fine. But if I finish first, I’m coming up to supervise.”
“To supervise, or to distract?” She replied, beginning to walk to the stairs.
“Both,” he answered, his tone warm and teasing.
MC smiled to herself as she climbed up the staircase, the wood panels creaking under her feet.
Once out of sight, she snuck into one of the spare bedrooms—the one at the end of the hall that Caleb intended to use as an office on work-from-home days. She closed the door with a soft click, then rushed to the stack of unopened boxes in the corner next to the small desk by the window.
She pried the top box open as quietly as she could, rummaging through to find the assorted office stationary she used occasionally. Pencil holders, random colored pencils thrown about, until she finally found the colored paper and sparkly gel pens she used to use while studying for her hunters exam. Setting the items on the ground next to her, she continued to look through the box, coming across assorted sticker sheets, markers, rolls of decorative washi tape in all different designs and colors. Among the mess of stationary, she spotted a pair of safety scissors at the bottom—a hefty sigh escaping her.
“These would have been nice earlier…” she muttered to herself, putting them down with the paper and other items.
She sat on the ground with her knees tucked underneath her, organizing the various supplies to begin working.
She started on the first sheet of pink paper. She cut it horizontally, making a rectangle with the paper and creating four slips of the pink paper. She cut slips of the blue, green, yellow, and white paper, setting them into neat stacks.
She took one slip of the pink paper and began to write in sparkly black ink. One free kiss coupon. She blew lightly on the ink to dry it before it smudged, then set it to the side, repeating the process for all of the other pink slips. The blue slips were next. 10 minute cuddle voucher. Then the green slips. One free ‘you’re right’ ticket. Lastly, the yellow. Breakfast in bed voucher. One by one, she decorated the slips with stickers, doodles, and tape.
She worked slowly, taking her time on each one. A tiny heart sticker here, a starburst doodle there, a strip of gold washi tape underlining the ‘you’re right.’ The sparkly gel pens caught the late afternoon light coming in through the window, making the ink shimmer as if the words themselves were happy.
Every few slips, she paused to reread what she’d written, a soft smile tugging at her lips. The ‘one free kiss’ one made her cheeks warm—she imagined slipping one into his wallet and watching his face when he found it while out to dinner. The cuddle vouchers got extra hearts; she remembered how he’d start touching her without hesitation again, like he was no longer afraid of breaching a boundary she had never set. The ‘you’re right’ tickets felt like an unspoken apology for every time she’d been stubborn, and he maintained his patience anyway. And the breakfast-in-bed ones were perfect for the slow mornings she wanted to spoil him instead, to wake him up with a warm plate of pancakes and sausage, his favorite apple apron around her waist—the domesticity almost gave her cavities thinking about how sweet it was.
She lost track of time as she lost herself in her crafts. The sun began to set deeper into the horizon, and the stacks grew, adding more colors—red, white, purple—each one with more creative ideas for coupons. A way of saying ‘I forgive you for everything, my love for you is unconditional’ without needing to say it out loud.
Downstairs, she could hear him moving: books organizing on the shelves, the faint clink of dishes being washed, the sizzle of dinner being cooked. The house started to settle around her, like it was made for them.
She reached the last yellow slip, wrote Breakfast in bed voucher, and added a plethora of cartoon food stickers along the empty space, sealing it with a strip of washi tape covered in apples on the edges. She blew on it one last time, then shuffled the strips together. Inside the box she never finished emptying, she sorted through the items and pulled out a mail envelope, sliding the thick stack of slips inside and writing “For Caleb. Use on a rough day,” along the front. She sealed the flap with a bow sticker, then began to put the supplies away.
For a moment, she let her mind wander, smiling softly to herself as she moved. Her heart had never felt so full—full of love, kindness, and forgiveness—all for the boy who was now her world. The boy who used to steal her cookies, who came back changed, but still hers, and the future they were building together, one room at a time.
As she sat back onto her knees, she let out a content sigh and looked around the empty room. Although there were a few pieces of furniture in it, it felt like a blank canvas.
She could envision it, all of it. Her and Caleb growing older together, their wedding, and everything that came after it. Filling this new home with everything that made them what they were today, and everything they would be in the future.
She saw it so clearly it almost hurt.
Their vow renewal photos strewn about, her in white, radiant smile lighting up the room through the photo, him in a lilac suit—her choice, always her choice. Framed photos of their sweetest moments, filling the home with love. The clutter of mementos too sentimental to throw away, the long late night conversations when insomnia strikes, the home cooked meals every night. And even further into the future, when they feel ready to start a family, if they start a family.
Caleb always talked about starting a family with her. He’d fantasize about having a boy and a girl, just like how they grew up—never alone because they always had each other. But at the end of the winding conversations about children, Caleb would always go along with whatever she wanted. In his mind, the more MC, the better.
She could see herself growing old with him. When wrinkles start setting in, and their hair starts coming in grey, it would still be them. With more inside jokes, more endless teasing, until death do them part.
She sighed dreamily at the idea. It was an odd feeling—nostalgia for the past, anticipation for the future, and readiness for whatever lay ahead of them.
From a young age, she always wanted this. But never in her wildest dreams did she think it would be with Caleb. I guess that’s what made this feeling so special. She was always told to expect the unexpected, but how could she have ever expected this to happen?
MC looked down at the envelope in her hands.
Her mind trailed towards melancholy. Though many years had passed since they were last children, she had never really stopped to think about how much had changed. How much she had grown. She always looked back on those days, judgemental of herself as an immature child and even more immature teen, and all of the questionable choices she had made, even as an adult.
She looked at herself now. Even though the past seemed like it was a lifetime ago, in hindsight, that silly, sweet girl that she always looked down upon had never gone very far. The sad thing about growing up was that oftentimes, life always found a way to snuff out the good and the innocent. The purity that she once had, the blissful ignorance of being a child—age always seemed to take that away and corrupt it. It was inevitable. An age-old labyrinth of misdirection and misfortune, an ugly byproduct of time and experience.
Life had tried to take so much from her, from them.
It took Grandma. It took their home. It took Caleb. It took the best pieces of them—her trust, his warmth, the carefree parts of them that used to laugh in the face of hardship. It gave them scars, trauma, distance, and a new side of him that still felt foreign sometimes.
However, sitting cross-legged on the floor of a spare bedroom in a house she owned—they owned—holding a stack of handmade coupons she’d just poured her heart into, she couldn’t help but feel like that piece of her hadn’t left her yet. That sweet, childlike MC was still there, and had so much to see, so much to not regret.
She spent so much of her adulthood feeling like she had to be the one to solve every mystery, answer every question, and get to the bottom of the evil that had uprooted their lives once. It was a self-imposed role she had conditioned herself into. The absurdity of it hit her in a rolling wave, like an epiphany she had been waiting her entire life for.
Why did she allow herself to be complacent in letting the world define her?
She turned the envelope over in her hands again.
Maybe this was a wake-up call. Or some kind of divine intervention. Or maybe it was just her, finally listening to the small, stubborn voice she’d spent years ignoring.
Growing up, a small part of MC resented the way she had grown up. Hearing stories from her friends about family vacations, having a mother like a best friend, sitting around the Christmas tree with mothers and fathers and siblings—she couldn’t help but be envious of what she never had. No matter how much Grandma spoiled them, to make sure she and Caleb had the happiest life possible, she always felt like something was missing.
But now, looking back, nothing was missing at all. She had everything she needed in front of her the entire time.
Outside, the summer sun sunk below the horizon. The sky melted into the colors of cotton candy, Venus and evening stars shining through the residual daylight.
And she sighed, coupons still in her hands.
She was right where she wanted to be, as the girl she always dreamt of being. She had so much to see; so much to not regret. She had so much to experience—long days, even longer nights, arguments, tender moments—a culmination of everything sweet that made life worth living. What more could she ask for?
This house wasn’t a home just yet.
But Caleb was home.