Back in Houston, I see you again for the first time in a year and the distance melts around us, enveloping us back into the friendship I remember. It is different in a very healthy way, but it is also so unmistakably and permanently ours.
I am still in an interim, sleeping on couches and keeping my wardrobe in the backseat of my car, though in some ways what’s happening right now is more permanent than ever.
The English boy is talking about moving, and this makes me feel terrified and giddy and anxious and—surprisingly—so very safe. I can’t promise him perfection or peace or even complete permanence, but I am desperately hoping that my substitute of understanding and forgiveness and effort is enough. Though I’m not exactly sure how much an uprooted life goes for these days.
And it is especially unfair because I am the opposite of uprooted right now. I am back to everything that I know, and while it’s unsettling in a semi-clichéd way, I’m pretty sure that it won’t take much longer until it feels like home again. Maybe not permanently, but in the meantime, I have given myself a reminder that I am always moving in the right direction.