The apartment smelled like cinnamon and new beginnings.
Boxes lined the floor. Some were labeled neatly: "Books (Ezra)," "Med School Stuff," "Talia's Chaos." Others just had random scribbles and doodles, hearts and smiley faces and one that said "Do not open unless you're prepared to be emotionally attacked by old letters."
They were moving in.
Together.
It was Ezra who brought it up first. They'd been dancing around the idea for weeks—shared laundry loads, toothbrushes appearing at each other's sinks, sleepovers that never really ended. But one quiet Thursday morning, while Talia sat on the kitchen floor eating cereal out of the box, Ezra looked at her and said simply:
"Come home."
And she had.
"I didn't realize I had so much stuff," Talia muttered as she wrestled with a tangle of fairy lights that refused to detangle.
Ezra chuckled from across the room, surrounded by open textbooks and cables. "You didn't. You just collect tiny objects like a crow with ADHD."
She threw a sock at him. "Says the man who owns three copies of The Little Prince in different languages."
"Emotional support copies," he replied without missing a beat.
They were learning to live in the same rhythm. Her chaos, his calm. Her quick words, his careful ones. The way she danced around the kitchen while cooking, and the way he made tea like it was a spiritual practice.
They had moments of friction, of course—he liked the blinds closed in the morning, she needed sunlight. She preferred music while studying, he needed silence. But in between those tiny misalignments were a hundred moments of choice. Of compromise. Of laughter.
Of love.
That night, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and leftover Thai food, they sat on the floor in what was now their living room.
"I've never shared space like this before," Talia admitted, leaning back against the couch.
Ezra looked over at her, his eyes soft. "You're doing great."
"I left the toothpaste cap off again this morning."
"I know."
"And your charging cable was in the fridge."
"I really know."
They both burst into laughter, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'm glad it's you. I don't think I could do this with anyone else."
He rested his chin on her hair. "Same. Even if you reorganized my bookshelf by color instead of author."
She gasped. "It's aesthetically pleasing!"
"It's blasphemy," he deadpanned.
They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that comes only with deep comfort.
Then Ezra shifted slightly, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie.
"I found something when we were packing," he said, holding out a folded piece of paper. "Do you remember this?"
Talia took it, fingers brushing his. She unfolded it slowly.
It was the first letter she ever wrote to him.
Back when he ghosted her.
The words were angrier than she remembered—hurt and raw, written in a moment of heartbreak. She hadn't thought about it in months.
"You kept it?"
He nodded. "Every word mattered. Even the painful ones."
Talia looked up at him, eyes shimmering. "We've come so far, haven't we?"
"We really have," he murmured. "But I don't want to just look back. I want to build forward. With you."
Her heart did that strange, full ache it always did around him.
"Ezra," she whispered, "me too."
He pulled her closer, the moment delicate and grounded at once. "Let's never stop choosing this. Choosing us. Even when we mess up. Especially then."
Talia smiled, reaching for his hand.
"You're stuck with me now, Doctor Li."
"Good," he said. "I like where we've landed."
Later that night, they stood at the threshold of their bedroom, tired and messy and content.
The door was open. Not just literally, but symbolically.
The beginning of a new phase.
Ezra took her hand.
"Ready?" he asked.
Talia looked around the imperfect, half-unpacked apartment. The chaos. The warmth. The letters tucked into book spines and boxes. The shared coffee mugs. The quiet presence of the boy she once thought she couldn't have—and the man he'd become.
"More than ever," she said.
And together, they stepped through the open door.