My name is Claire. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve known what instability feels like for as long as I can remember.
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By the time I turned eight, I had already lived in more homes than I could name. Different beds. Different rules. Different adults promising things they didn’t always keep. You learn quickly in the foster system not to get attached. Not to expect permanence.
People like to call kids like me “strong” or “resilient.”
The truth is simpler.
You learn how to pack fast.
You learn how to stay quiet.
And you learn not to hope too much.
Then I met Noah.
The Boy Everyone Looked Past
Noah was nine when I met him.
He sat near the window most afternoons, his wheelchair angled just enough to see outside. He had sharp eyes and a way of watching the world that made it clear he noticed more than people thought. Adults spoke around him, not to him. Other kids weren’t unkind — just unsure. They’d wave, then run off to games he couldn’t join.
One afternoon, I sat beside him with my book and said, half joking,
“If you’re guarding the window, you should at least share the view.”
He looked at me for a long moment and said,
“You’re new.”
“Returned,” I corrected. “I’m Claire.”
“Noah.”
That was it.
From that moment on, we were inseparable.
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