I pulled into the dark driveway at 10:34pm. It’s the driveway second to last at the end of the street, and is flanked by a towering coniferous tree on one side and an oak on the other. Only swaying slightly in the wind, they hold their positions steadfast, guarding the sizable dark brown house stationed behind them. 

Clicking open the garage door I find bikes sprawled out all through my parking space—yet again, I’d be parking in the driveway. I wouldn’t have minded much if it weren’t for the rain pelting down into the streets, drenching anything and everything that was visible. I glance back at the mountains of bags in the back seat of my car. ‘Only take what you need,’ my Mom’s voice rang through my head. As my eyes crossed over the eleven bags stacked up, I saw her point, but also, what if I had forgotten something? I hate feeling unprepared. 

The rain’s not gonna get any drier, I thought. With a quick exhale I switched off the ignition, cranked my door open, and started racking my arms with clothes bags, duffels, my makeup box, school backpack, and sports bags. My hair sticks to my face and I can feel my mascara starting to bleed as I make a dash for the garage, the driveway illuminated by nothing other than the dimly-shining moon and a few casted rays from the neighbor’s porch lights. I was in the home stretch when my foot hit something metallic and hard. 

Sreeeek! My landing is cushioned by all my travel bags, but whatever it was I hit rattles across the concrete garage floor. Picking myself up, I glare at the culprit, now hiding in the corner. It’s one of those metal scooters, the kind that hurts like none other when it runs into your ankles. Scooter-probably 20 by now, me-0. I grab my field hockey bag from where it landed a few feet in front of me and heft my load the remainder of the steps to the door. Kicking it open, I’m met with the dark abyss of the kitchen, and then the living room, the front entrance, the stairs, and on and on until I finally reach my room. I grapple with the door handle, push my overnight bags through the door frame, and dump my armloads on the floor. I turn on my desk lights, the warm-lit lamps by my bead, the constellation-illuminating rock on my bookshelf. I tell Alexa to play whatever Indie song I had on last and take a moment to look over my art on the walls. My eyes follow the pictures of my friends on my photo-line, I read over the inspirational quotes decorating my desk, I look at my unfinished journal entry from last week, now laying on my desk. I breathe in a sigh of relief. 

I’m finally back home again. I’ll have to make the same move in a few days, and again the next week, and over and over until I’m eighteen—the glorious product of my parents’ divorce—but for the moment all I can do is appreciate being back in my own space. Despite the lonely trips between the houses and the darkness upon getting to Dad’s, my room never fails to give me a little peace of mind. The best way to deal with instability, I’ve learned, is to create your own constant, your own space, your own stability in life.