“No, listen, I’m happy for you. Genuinely. I just need you to know you’ve leveled up into a fully committed, potentially feral domestic polycule. There’s no going back.”
I cover my face with both hands. “I cried when I saw the porch light get replaced with a new one right away when I told Carter his was going out. Don’t make me cry again.”
She softens immediately, stepping forward to squeeze my wrist gently. “Hey. I’m just giving you shit. You know that, right? This is good. Like,sogood.”
I nod. “It feels good. It feels real. Like… my stuff is here. My desk. My cables. Mylife.”
“You’re not splitting weekends anymore.”
“No,” I whisper. “I’m not.”
We move through the living room where she inspects the couch for structural integrity with a side-eye that says she knows exactly what’s gone down here before I lead her down the hall.
The office-slash-streaming room gets a full gasp. We had all decided to move our set ups into the same room.
“This issoyou,” she says, touching the edge of my mic arm. “And that’s definitely Tate’s terrifying little mask shelf, right?”
“Correct.”
“He’s so scary. I love him.”
We end the tour in my room the room that’s mine now, really mine. My shelves are cluttered with candles, art prints, and too many Funko Pops.
I don’t realize I’m crying again until Cassie wraps her arms around me and says, “Okay, you have ten seconds before I start crying too and it gets gross.”
“I just—” My voice breaks. “I can’t believe this is my life now.”
“Believe it,” she whispers. “You built this. Youchosethis.”
I don’t know how long we sit there, curled up on the edge of my bed, our knees tucked close and coffees long gone. We talk about everything and nothing. I tell her about a stream raidthat made a new girl cry, about how Carter whistles when he’s cooking and how Tate won’t shut up during loading screens. I tell her how I can’t believe I’m a full-time streamer now. How I wake up to Red Bull in the fridge and soft kisses on my cheek and playlists queued up in the hallway.
I tell her how I’m scared it’s too good to last.
She glances at her phone with a reluctant sigh, the clock reminds us that timehaspassed. She stands and stretches. “Okay, nerd. I gotta run. I promised my roommate I’d bring home sushi and not emotionally unload about my best friend having the dream life.”
I walk her to the door, squeezing her hand once before she steps out onto the porch. “Hey. You’re my forever. That’s never changing.”
She hesitates, her eyes shining just a little too brightly. “I know. But I’m still stealing your oat milk when I visit.”
We both laugh, and she pulls me in for one last hug. “I’m proud of you,” she whispers. “This place, this life—you made it happen. Don’t forget that. I love you Havie.”
When she finally leaves, the quiet settles in around me like a weighted blanket.
The twins won’t be home for another couple of hours, I’ve got time to kill.
So I move through the house with my slippers on, aimlessly rearranging throw pillows, straightening the crooked stack of coasters Tate keeps knocking over.
I run a quick shower, letting the hot water wash away the tension. Toweling off, I pull on oversized sweats and collapseonto the living room couch. My eyelids drag themselves shut almost immediately.
When I stir awake, nearly two hours later, the light has shifted, slanting in through the blinds. The house is still empty, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional creak from settling floorboards. I stretch, yawn, and for a moment just lie there, savoring the calm before the twins return.
I make my way into the kitchen, finally eyeing the note Carter left in his embarrassingly neat handwriting.
“Try the pasta bake if you’re hungry. Instructions on the fridge. You’ll crush it, unless you burn the cheese. Then we riot. Love you.”
Beneath the note is a recipe printout with his own edits in Sharpie.
I laugh, flipping the oven on and gathering ingredients. The kitchen starts to smell like roasted tomato and herbs, I dance between the stove and the sink like a girl who never imagined this would be her reality.
