There’s a red sticker on my bedside table. Its edges are curled, the nine-digit number is fading. It’s one of hundreds slapped on our furniture by movers over the years. These stickers have followed me through seven moves and new schools. They've felt like an annoyance I tried to peel away. Now, the red sticker feels personal. It represents where I’ve been and who I hope to become. My earliest memory of the stickers was yellow ones in Texas (our second move). I spent hours peeling them off...

They ask me where I’m from—real sweet, Like it’s a place I clearly know. But moving every year on repeat Means roots don’t get a chance...

We packed our lives in cardboard dreams, side by side, a roaming team. Through cities bright and towns unknown, you were the closest...