“No, there isn’t,” I agree, smiling despite the tension stillstretching between us. “Not least because the homeowner bought it drunk, and the contractor keeps quitting and coming back.”
“I didn’t quit,” he says, surprising me with the honesty in his voice. “I needed space.”
“You literally recommended another contractor,” I remind him, though without the bite that would’ve been there days ago.
“I was…” He pauses, searching. “Reactive.”
Coming from Owen, it’s practically a grand confession of emotional recklessness. I nod, accepting it. We fall into a pause, awkward but no longer unbearable, heavy with all the things neither of us knows how to say.
Then I see it—my box of postcards on the workbench, the lid open, cards fanned out in a burst of color. My breath catches.
“You found them,” I say, moving toward the box.
Owen nods, his expression softer now. “They fell during the storm. The box was wet. I was trying to dry them out.”
I reach the workbench and look down at my life, scattered in glossy rectangles—San Diego, Minneapolis, Chicago, Boston, Portland, L.A., and dozens of places in between. Some printed, some handmade. All written to myself.
“Did you read them?” I ask, already knowing the answer from his face.
“Some,” he says. “I didn’t realize what they were at first.”
I pick up the oldest one—a San Diego coastline. I wrote it at ten.
Dear Future Me, I hope you found somewhere that feels like yours. Still looking. —P.
“I’ve been sending myself postcards since I was a kid,” I explain, tracing the faded ink. “From every place I’ve lived or visited. It started when I was bouncing between my parents and never felt like I fully belongedanywhere.”
He steps closer, looking down at the collection. “They’re all addressed to you.”
“Messages to my future self. Reminders of where I’ve been.” I shuffle through them, showing him the arc from childish scrawl to teenage angst to careful adult lettering. “Some are just about the places. Others are… more personal.”
I hand him one from Chicago, college years:
Dear Future Me, Left another apartment today. Fourth one in two years. Mom says it’s wanderlust. Dad says instability. I think maybe I’m just afraid of what happens if I stay long enough for people to really see me. Still looking. —P.
Owen reads it, slow and thoughtful. Not judging. Just listening.
“You’ve been looking for home your whole life,” he says.
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “Yes. And running from it at the same time.”
He hands the postcard back. Our fingers brush.
“Why?”
It’s a simple question that cuts clean to the center of everything. I look down at my postcards—proof of a life spent in motion—and answer with a truth I’ve never said aloud.
“Because I’ve always been afraid that if I stayed long enough, I’d find out I didn’t belong there either. That I’d put down roots only to realize the soil wasn’t right. Or worse, that I’d get asked to leave just when it started to feel like home.” I meet his gaze, vulnerable but steady. “It’s easier to leave first than to be left behind.”
Something shifts in his expression—not just understanding, but recognition.
“So you keep one foot out the door. Always ready for the next move.”
“I did,” I say. “Until this place. Until…”
I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to. It lingers between us anyway.
Until you.
