I found an old essay I'd written on home, and the pleasantness of having a single home where my girl and I can always come back to. I was raised with my parents having joint custody of me, and I spent half the week at one's house, and vice versa. Now, being past all that, as well as college roommates and apartments, it's so reassuring to have our apartment, just for us, always with us.
In the essay I was re-reading, I came across a line that described perfectly how I handled bouncing around so much when I was younger. Contemplating another move, my thoughts ran thus: "I'll have to uproot, wrap all the pieces of myself back into a ball and shove it inside my lungs to live by my heart, slowing my breathing, tightening my chest." Something about that line keeps resonating in my head. It feels so familiar, and yet, I think it's a familiarity that I can finally let go of.
I have a home; we have a home. We'll travel to get married, we'll go on our honeymoon, and we'll come back to this home. One day we'll move into a new home, together. There's something about finding your forever girl that makes the tight balls inside relax, and allows life to flow.