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They were looking for someone younger. Easier. Less complicated.
Every time another kid left with a suitcase—or sometimes just a trash bag—we performed our stupid little ritual.
“If you get adopted,” Noah would say, “I get your headphones.”
“And if you get adopted,” I’d answer, “I get your hoodie.”
We always said it like a joke.
But we both knew no one was coming for the quiet girl with “failed placement” in her file.
Or the boy in the wheelchair.
So instead, we chose each other.
Aging Out Into the World
We aged out of the system almost at the same time.
When we turned eighteen, they called us into an office and slid paperwork across the desk.
“Sign here. You’re adults now.”
That was it.
No party.
No congratulations.
No one saying they were proud of us.
Just a folder, a bus pass, and the words “Good luck out there.”
We walked out of that building carrying everything we owned in plastic bags.
On the sidewalk, Noah spun one wheel of his chair lazily.
“Well,” he said, “at least nobody can tell us where to go anymore.”
“Unless it’s jail,” I replied.
He snorted.
“Then we better not get caught doing anything illegal.”
Building a Life From Nothing
We found a tiny apartment above a laundromat that always smelled like hot soap and burned lint.
The stairs were terrible, but the rent was cheap and the landlord didn’t ask questions.
So we took it.
We enrolled in community college and shared a used laptop. We worked every job we could find.
Noah did remote IT support and tutoring.
I worked mornings at a coffee shop and stocked shelves at night.
We furnished our place with curbside finds and thrift-store junk.
Three plates.
One decent pan.
A couch that tried to stab you with its springs.
But somehow, it was the first place that felt like home.
When Friendship Became Something More
Somewhere in that exhausting routine, our friendship changed.
Not with fireworks.
Not with some dramatic kiss in the rain.
Just little things.
Noah started texting me every time I walked somewhere after dark.
“Message me when you get there.”
I noticed that the moment I heard his wheels rolling down the hallway, my whole body relaxed.
We’d put on movies “just for background” and end up falling asleep on the couch.
My head on his shoulder.
His hand resting casually on my knee.
One night, exhausted from studying, I looked at him and said,
“We’re kind of already together, aren’t we?”
He didn’t even glance away from his laptop.
“Oh good,” he said.
“Thought that was just me.”
The Proposal in the Kitchen
We finished our degrees one brutal semester at a time.
When our diplomas arrived in the mail, we placed them on the kitchen counter and stared at them like they might disappear.
“Look at us,” Noah said.
“Two orphans with paperwork.”
A year later, he proposed.
Not at a fancy restaurant.
Not in front of a crowd.