We Became Each Other’s Home
1210 Words
The thing about the orphanage was that nothing really changed.
The same walls.
The same routines.
The same empty feeling that followed you around no matter where you went.
But somehow
Everything felt different after Cory.
It started small.
It always does.
I noticed it first during meals.
The cafeteria was loud, metal trays clattering, voices overlapping, chairs scraping harshly against the floor. It was the kind of noise that made it easy to disappear if you wanted to.
And I always wanted to.
I kept my head down as usual, staring at the tray in front of me. The food looked the same as it always did, bland, barely warm, not enough.
I picked at it slowly, not really hungry.
“You’re not eating.”
I didn’t have to look up to know it was him.
“I will,” I said quietly.
“You said that yesterday.”
I sighed softly. “I’m just not that hungry.”
A pause.
Then the sound of his tray sliding across the table.
I looked up this time.
Half his food was now on my plate.
“You need it more,” he said simply.
“You barely have enough already.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“So are you.”
I stared at him for a second.
Then, I ate.
Not because I was hungry.
But because he was watching.
And for some reason, that made it harder not to.
That became a pattern.
Small things.
Unnoticed things.
Cory sitting next to me every morning like it was automatic.
Walking me to class even when his was in the opposite direction.
Waiting for me after.
Always there.
Always close.
At first, I thought it was coincidence.
Then I realized
It wasn’t.
“You follow him around like a shadow,” one of the girls said one afternoon, her voice laced with amusement.
“I don’t follow him,” I replied.
She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because it looks like it.”
I glanced over at Cory, who was leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, watching us.
Watching me.
“He just, walks with me,” I said.
“Same thing.”
I didn’t respond.
Because maybe she wasn’t wrong.
But it didn’t feel like that.
It didn’t feel like I was following him.
It felt like
I had somewhere to stand.
Somewhere to exist without constantly looking over my shoulder.
And Cory,
Cory made that possible.
“You think too much.”
His voice pulled me back.
I turned to him. “What?”
“You do that,” he said, nodding slightly. “You go quiet like you’re somewhere else.”
“I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
I hesitated.
“Nothing important.”
He didn’t look convinced.
“Tell me anyway.”
I shook my head, a small smile forming. “You don’t need to know everything.”
“I do if it involves you.”
Something in the way he said it made my chest tighten.
Not in a bad way.
Just, noticeable.
“You’re weird,” I muttered.
“And you’re quiet,” he shot back. “We all have things.”
That made me laugh, soft, but real.
It surprised me.
I wasn’t used to that sound coming from me.
Cory noticed too.
His expression shifted slightly, something softer replacing the usual calm.
“You should do that more.”
“What?”
“Laugh.”
I looked away, suddenly aware of how exposed it made me feel.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine most of the time.”
“I am.”
“Diana.”
I glanced back at him.
“I’m okay,” I said again, more firmly this time.
He held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded.
“Okay.”
But he didn’t look convinced.
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks into something that felt like routine.
And somewhere along the way…
Cory stopped being just someone who helped me.
He became something else.
Something closer.
Something constant.
We started sitting together at night sometimes, away from the others, where it was quieter.
Safer.
“At least when we leave this place, we won’t have to deal with this anymore,” Cory said one evening, staring up at the dark sky.
I followed his gaze.
“You really think it’ll be different?”
“It has to be.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ll make it different.”
The certainty in his voice made me glance at him.
“How?”
“I’ll get us out of here.”
Us.
Not me.
Not him.
Us.
“You don’t even know what’s out there,” I said.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
He shook his head slightly. “No, it doesn’t. As long as you’re not here, it’s already better.”
I went quiet.
Not because I disagreed.
But because
Part of me believed him.
“Can I come with you?” I asked before I could stop myself.
The question slipped out too easily.
Too honestly.
He turned his head slowly, looking at me like I had just said something obvious.
“Of course you are.”
My chest tightened again.
“You don’t even know if you’ll still like me by then,” I said, trying to make it sound like a joke.
“I already decided.”
“Decided what?”
“That you’re mine to look after.”
The words landed softly.
But they stayed.
I frowned slightly. “That’s not how it works.”
“It is for me.”
Something about that should’ve made me uncomfortable.
Maybe it did.
A little.
But it was buried under something stronger.
Something warmer.
The idea that someone had already chosen me.
Without hesitation.
Without doubt.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
And just like that
It became normal.
But normal didn’t mean perfect.
I started noticing things.
Small things.
The way Cory’s expression would change when I talked to other people.
The way he’d step closer, just enough to remind them I wasn’t alone.
Or maybe
To remind them I wasn’t available.
“You don’t need to talk to them,” he said once, his tone casual, but his eyes weren’t.
“They were just asking about class.”
“You can answer and leave.”
“I did.”
“Not fast enough.”
I blinked, caught off guard.
“They weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“They don’t need to.”
The conversation ended there.
Not because I agreed.
But because I didn’t know what to say.
And it felt easier
Not to push.
That was the thing about Cory.
He didn’t force things.
Not exactly.
He just made it feel like there was only one right choice.
And somehow
That choice was always him.
That night, as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling again, I realized something.
The quiet didn’t feel as empty anymore.
Not like before.
Because now
I wasn’t alone in it.
I had Cory.
And for the first time in my life…
That felt like enough.
Even if I didn’t fully understand why.
Or what it would eventually cost me.
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