Pull the laptop onto my lap.
And for the first time in what feels like forever…
I start to type.
Just a few words.
A line.
Maybe the beginning of something new.
Or maybe the continuation of something I almost gave up on.
But it’s there.
The want.
The hope.
The beginning.
And I know—
I’ll have to rewrite this life a hundred times before I get it perfect.
But I won’t be doing it alone.
I look back through the window.
And when I see Cal—shoulders broad, hands sure, building me a room where I can belong—I feel it in my bones.
This isn’t a someday.
This isn’t borrowed.
This is mine.
