Growing up together meant seeing every version of each other.
The angry versions.
The quiet versions.
The hopeful versions.
The ones who pretended not to care.
When families toured the home, we never got excited. We’d seen it too many times. They wanted someone easier. Someone younger. Someone without a wheelchair. Someone without a long file of “previous placements.”
We made jokes to survive it.
“If you get adopted, I get your headphones.”
“If you do, I get your hoodie.”
We laughed every time.
But we both knew the truth.
No one was coming.
Aging Out Together
When we turned eighteen, there was no ceremony.
They handed us paperwork, a bus pass, and wished us luck.
That was it.
We walked out together carrying everything we owned in plastic bags.
No family.
No safety net.
Just each other.
We enrolled in community college. Found a tiny apartment above a laundromat. The stairs were terrible, but the rent was cheap. Noah worked remote IT jobs and tutoring. I worked coffee shifts and night stocking.
It wasn’t easy.
But for the first time, it felt like home.
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