I will be packing boxes like I always have, but this time the road won't lead to another base. It leads to a future I chose. Senior year feels like standing on a front porch that was never really mine, but somehow, I grew up here anyway. I’ve learned to make friends fast, to smile even when the map says “start over,” to carry home in my own two hands because it was never just a place. Now college waits like a brand-new assignment, but for once, I’m not the new kid by default, I’m the girl...

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...