I’m riding home from a friend’s place, the city skyline beckoning me and growing closer as I pedal towards home. This is the life I dreamed of. A home in the city with my best friend and soulmate, and all of the comforts we can ask for. I coast for a moment, letting my head drop back, breathing in the air — a sweet mix of urban aromas and the cool mountain breezes wafting in along the front range.
This is the life I dreamed of.
I’m leaving behind a night of laughs with people who know me well, knowing I’m waking up to more fun times with other beloved friends. Our collected, carefully-curated, adopted family here, thousands of miles from our original “home.”
We are making a life here, and it couldn’t be more perfect. It’s probably nothing that I ever dreamed for myself 10 years ago, and yet, so much more than I could have ever imagined. I can’t help but wonder when the bubble will burst. It can’t last forever, this perfection, and I know that it will not all be blissful bike rides and lazy Friday nights ahead.
But, for now, I breathe in the abnormally warm March air. I stop and smile as neighbors, my age, sit on their front porch and play banjo music that floats above the city lights. I turn towards home and coast in through my backyard, greeted by sloppy kisses and oh-so-familiar faces. The windows are open, allowing me to soak in the spring breezes and city noises as I lay here in bed, thinking of this. This is the life I dreamed of.