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The day of the move was here.

Boxes were stacked by the front door, some labeled in sharpie, others with crooked crayon scribbles courtesy of Lily. The house smelled like tape, cardboard, and the faint last breath of home.

I stood in the doorway of my room—the room that had only been mine for a few months—and just... stared.

The flag was the last thing on the wall.

I'd waited to take it down. Not because I forgot.
Because I didn't want to.

This room wasn't perfect. It held fear and memories I didn't ask for.

But it also held the first time I felt safe enough to be myself.

Now we were leaving.

I remember when I first came here.

I hadn't even unpacked my bag yet, and already I was scared to breathe too loudly. Everything was quiet, unfamiliar, and safe — which somehow scared me even more.

Because I wasn't used to safe.

I was used to walking on eggshells.
To raised voices.
To never knowing if something as small as saying the wrong word, or crying too loud, would set her off.

All the memories of the abuse from my birth mom... they didn't go away just because the door changed. They followed me in here. Clung to me like old smoke.

For weeks, I jumped at every creak in the floorboards. I waited for the kindness to run out.

It never did.

This room?
It had become more than a room.
It was the first place I started healing.
The first place I said "I'm gender fluid" out loud and didn't hear laughter or disgust in return.
The first place I saw my reflection and didn't flinch.

Now I was leaving it behind.

Not because I had to escape something...

But because I finally had a chance to move forward.

I took down my flag.

Carefully. Slowly. Like it was something fragile, even though it wasn't made of glass or paper.

It was just fabric.

But it meant something.

To me, it was more than just stripes of pink, white, purple, black, and blue.
It was proof.
Proof that I existed. That I didn't have to choose one thing or another. That I didn't have to be anyone else's version of me anymore.

And this was the first place I ever felt brave enough to hang it.

I folded it gently, smoothing the corners as I sat on the edge of the now-bare mattress. My fingers hesitated at the last fold.

Not because I didn't want to take it with me.

Because I was scared to start over again.

But this time, it wasn't running.

This time... it was moving forward.

I tucked the flag into the top of my backpack. Right where it belonged.

Right next to me.

The movers came into my room and took the last of the things.

They didn't say much—just polite nods and quiet footsteps as they lifted boxes and stripped the space bare. My bed was the last to go.

I stood in the corner, arms folded, watching them carry it out like it was just another piece of furniture.

To them, it was.

To me, it was where I stayed up too late texting Jasmine and Mia. Where I cried into my pillow more nights than I could count. Where I started to believe, just a little, that this place could actually be home.

And now it was gone.

Just like that.

The walls echoed more without it.

All that was left was the outline of the bed frame pressed into the carpet and a thumbtack I'd missed on the wall.

I pulled it out and held it in my hand like it was the last piece of this version of me.

I took one last look at my room.

The empty walls. The bare floor. The dent in the carpet where my bed used to be. It didn't even look like my room anymore.

Just a space I passed through. A space I grew in.
A space I survived.

I didn't say goodbye out loud. That felt too dramatic. Too final.

But I thought it. Quietly.

Thank you.

Then I closed the door.

The soft click of the latch felt louder than it should've. Like punctuation on the end of a sentence I wasn't sure how to finish.

I stood there for a moment, my hand still on the doorknob, heart a little heavier than I wanted to admit.

And then I turned around and walked away.

As I walked down the stairs, I looked around.

The hallway was quieter than usual, like the house knew we were leaving and didn't want to make a fuss about it.

My eyes drifted to the bathroom door halfway down the hall.

That was where I found out.

Where I stared at the test strip for what felt like hours, like if I looked long enough, it would change. Where my hands shook. Where everything flipped upside down.

I paused at the bottom step.

The same bathroom where I spent days hovering over the sink or curled up on the floor, dealing with morning sickness. Too tired. Too scared. Too overwhelmed.

Not the greatest memories.

But they were mine.

And they happened here.

Not because this place was bad.

But because this place let me finally feel safe enough to face everything.

I kept walking.

I made it to the kitchen.

It looked different now—emptier. No cereal boxes on the counter. No random school papers stuck to the fridge. No smell of coffee or toast or something Lily begged Mom to make five minutes before breakfast ended.

Just bare countertops.

And silence.

I leaned against the doorframe and let my eyes scan the room.

I looked out the kitchen window at the backyard.

The grass was patchy now, sun-bleached and scattered with the last bits of summer. But in my head, I didn't see that.

I saw snow.

Piled high from the storm in January.
I saw the snowforts Sam, Lily and I built — lopsided, half-collapsing, but perfect in the way only messy, cold things can be.

I could still hear the laughter.

The wind.
The crunch of boots.
The squeals when someone dumped snow down someone else's coat.

I hadn't realized it back then, but that was one of the first times I'd really laughed here.

Not polite laughing.
Not pretending to feel okay.

But actual joy.

Even in the middle of all the fear... I'd had that moment.

And now I was saying goodbye to it.

The living room didn't look the same.

In fact, it looked bigger now that it was empty.
No couch. No rug. No pillows tossed on the floor from Lily's latest game. No blanket half-draped over the armrest from one of Mom's "ten-minute power naps" that always turned into forty-five.

Just open space.

And echoes.

The sunlight poured through the window and hit the floor in long, quiet streaks. It felt like the room was holding its breath.

This was where we spent the most time as a family.

Where I sat curled up with Sam and Lily watching movies.
Where Mom told us, in the softest voice, that we were going to be okay — even when none of us really believed it yet.
Where I laughed at dumb jokes and cried when I thought no one was looking.

Now, it was just a hollow room.

Walls. Air. Light.

But I could still feel the warmth that had lived here.

Even if everything was gone, that part stayed behind for just a second longer — like the soul of the house whispering, you mattered here.

And then I turned toward the door.

"Emily, are you ready to go?" Mom asked gently from behind me.

I looked at the living room one more time.

All that space. All those memories. The laughter, the tears, the quiet nights that made me feel safe again.

I turned back to her and nodded.
"Yeah, Mom."

My voice was soft. But steady.

I walked out the front door, stepping into the sunlight, the breeze, the next chapter. I paused for just a second on the porch and looked over my shoulder.

One last time.

And then Mom closed the door.

Behind us, the house stood still.

But ahead of us... something new was waiting.

The car ride was quiet at first. No one really talked. Just the soft hum of the wheels on the road and Lily humming to herself in the back seat.

I stared out the window, watching houses blur into stores, stores blur into trees, and trees blur into just sky.

Then I saw it.

That familiar glowing yellow sign.

McDonald's.

My stomach immediately perked up. Burger? it asked. Fries? Milkshake? Ketchup on everything?

"Can we stop for—" I started, already pointing out the window.

But just as we passed the turn-in, I spotted something across the street.

Taco Bell.

I blinked. "Actually... never mind."

Mom raised an eyebrow in the mirror. "You changed your mind?"

I shrugged. "The baby saw Taco Bell."

Sam groaned. "We're gonna have to get two separate orders again, aren't we?"

Dad chuckled under his breath. "It's a big day. You've earned it."

Mom just smiled. "Taco Bell it is."

And just like that, the mood shifted — just a little.

Not perfect. But lighter.

I ended up getting a Chicken Gordita.

Not even what I was planning to order, but it just sounded good in the moment. The baby approved, apparently.

We were parked in a shaded spot outside the Taco Bell, everyone quietly eating out of crinkly bags and little sauce-stained wrappers.

Dad glanced at my food and smirked.

"You know," he said between bites of his taco, "when I was your age, Taco Bell had a mascot. A little chihuahua dog."

I raised an eyebrow. "A what?"

"A chihuahua," he repeated. "Used to walk around in commercials and say, '¡Yo quiero Taco Bell!'"

Sam blinked. "What does that even mean?"

"'I want Taco Bell,'" Dad said proudly, doing a very questionable impression of the voice. "It was a big deal in the '90s. Everyone loved that little dog."

I stared at him. "That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard."

Mom snorted into her napkin. "He had a T-shirt with that dog on it. Wore it until it fell apart."

"I regret nothing," Dad said with a grin.

I couldn't help but laugh. The image of Dad proudly walking around in a shirt with a tiny talking chihuahua was too much.

We finally made it to the house.

It looked even bigger than I remembered—maybe because it wasn't just staged and spotless this time. It was ours now. Ours, with moving boxes piled in the entryway and the sun pouring through the windows like it had been waiting for us.

The moment we stepped inside, Mom said, "Go ahead—take a look around. Pick your room."

That was all Lily needed to hear.

She bolted.

Seconds later, we heard her voice echo from upstairs.
"I want this one! It's huge!"

"That's the master bedroom, Lily!" Dad called up. "It's not yours—it's ours!"

Lily reappeared at the railing on the second floor, frowning like she'd been robbed.

"Then I want the one with the big closet!"

"You don't even wear half your clothes," Sam muttered.

I wandered off before it turned into a full-on turf war.

The house was... huge. Like, mansion-level huge.

There were three floors and a basement.
Three.

That was not in the tour.

I took a turn down one hallway and realized I had no idea where I was. Every door led to a room. And then another room. And then a hallway off that room.

Somehow I ended up circling back to the kitchen. Twice.

"I think I just got lost in our own house," I said aloud, mostly to myself.

Somewhere nearby, I heard Sam yell, "Found the laundry chute! I'm throwing a sock down it!"

Then I heard Mom yell, "Do not throw anything living down the laundry chute!"

I laughed. For real.

I finally made it to the third floor.

There was only one door up here, tucked away at the top of a narrow staircase that curved just enough to make it feel like I was climbing into a secret. I opened the door and stepped inside.

And just stood there.

The room was huge.

High ceilings. A big window that overlooked the backyard. A built-in bookshelf. A walk-in closet. And best of all—quiet.

Far from the noise. Far from the chaos.

Just... mine.

I wandered in slowly, soaking it in. This wasn't some cramped corner of a hallway or the leftover "you-get-what's-left" room.

This was a real bedroom.

And maybe, with everything that was coming—the baby, the doctor visits, the emotional tornado of starting over—maybe this was what I needed.

A space of my own.

I flopped onto the floor

Then I heard it.

The telltale stomp of Lily's little feet on the stairs.

"Emily!" she called from the second floor. "Where'd you go?"

"Up here!" I called back.

Seconds later, she appeared in the doorway, panting. Her eyes widened as she took in the room.

"This is YOUR room?"

I nodded, already bracing for it.

She did a slow, dramatic spin. "But... but this is the second biggest room in the whole house!"

I shrugged. "I guess no one else wanted to climb all the stairs."

She narrowed her eyes. "You knew this was up here, didn't you?"

"Nope," I said, grinning. "Total surprise."

"But it has TWO windows!"

"Three," I said, pointing. "There's one in the closet."

Lily's jaw dropped.

"I picked mine already," she muttered, crossing her arms. "Too late now."

I didn't gloat.

Much.

I was still standing in the middle of the room when I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs behind me.

"Delivery for Miss Emily," Dad said, appearing in the doorway with my mattress balanced awkwardly in his arms.

I grinned. "You found me."

"Hard not to when you're hiding in the tower of a castle," he said with a smirk, stepping inside. "What is this, the west wing?"

He lowered the mattress to the floor with a grunt, then stood up and looked around.

"Nice pick," he said. "Big space. Quiet. And far enough away from Sam's room that you might actually get some sleep."

I sat down on the mattress and bounced lightly on the edge.

"This is perfect," I said softly.

Dad gave a nod, brushing dust off his hands. "Figured you might need the extra space soon, anyway. For, you know..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't have to.

I nodded. "Yeah."

He gave me a small, proud smile and headed for the stairs. "Let me know if you need anything else."

And just like that, I was alone in my new room.

I brought up the only box I had and carried it into my new room.

It wasn't heavy—just awkward. Mostly clothes, a few books, and some stuff I probably didn't even need but couldn't leave behind.

I set it down near the wall and looked around.

This room was huge.

Big enough for a queen-sized bed, a dresser, a desk, probably even a couch if I angled it right.

I laughed under my breath.

It was going to take me forever to fill this room.

I barely had anything.

Just a few memories packed in a box and a mattress on the floor. No string lights. No posters. No piles of shoes.

But for once, that didn't make me feel empty.

It just made me feel... ready.

I took out my flag.

The fabric was soft from how many times I'd unfolded and folded it again, like it carried every version of me that had ever clung to it for safety. For truth.

Pink. White. Purple. Black. Blue.

The whole messy rainbow of me.

I stood there for a second, holding it against my chest, looking around the giant room I now apparently lived in. The walls were way too clean. The corners too sharp. Everything felt too new and too big.

"I don't even have my dresser yet," I muttered.

But I had this.

I walked over to the wall above my mattress and unfolded the flag slowly, carefully, like I was placing something sacred. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just... necessary.

I stuck the first pushpin in and stepped back.

The fabric fluttered just slightly in the breeze from the window.

And for the first time all day... the room felt a little bit more like mine.

Like I had officially claimed the space.

Like I didn't need to explain anything—not to the walls, not to the house, not to the world outside.

This was me.
Here.
Still standing.
Still becoming.

And I had the flag to prove it.