Four people smiling around a table.
One person at home folding their clothes.
And a phone notification that accidentally told the truth.
The day I arrived in Seattle, my friend handed me a key to the place where we were staying.
“Don’t lose it,” she said.
I closed my fingers around it.
Nobody had ever needed to tell me that a key was only a key.
But after months on a folding cot, it felt heavier than that.
It meant there was a door I could open without asking whether I was inconveniencing someone.
A room I had permission to enter.
A place where my presence had been expected.
I put the key in my pocket and followed her inside.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a guest.
