Elin shifted again. Not quite moving, more like settling further into her own skin. “For me… I think home isn’t a destination. It’s not about finally arriving somewhere perfect. It’s…” She paused, eyes softening, searching the air for language that wouldn’t betray the feeling. “It’s what happens in the space between arrivals. The in-betweens. The moments no one curates. Where you’re not being watched. Where nothing is being proven. Just… the next step, taken without performance.”
Her breath caught, barely audible, then continued.
“It’s the field repairs,” she said. “It’s the coffee. It’s the pulse of continuity. Presence, not spectacle. Not grand gestures. Just… rhythm. The kind you don’t notice until it’s missing.”
Linn felt something loosen in her chest. Not release, just recognition. The words didn’t land on her. They moved through her. As if they’d already been there, just waiting to be named.
Then, quieter, Elin added, “And maybe… I ran out of places to escape to. I don’t want to be in motion anymore.”
She opened her eyes and met Linn’s. Unshielded. Steady.
“Being here with you, it feels like that. Like maybe home isn’t a structure, or a city, or an address.”
She exhaled, slow. “It’s you. It’s this. A moment I don’t have to edit, or narrate, or earn.”
Linn swallowed, something heavy and luminous catching in her throat.
“I think I’ve been searching for that longer than I want to admit,” she said. “The kind of presence that doesn’t ask for performance. Just… stays.”
Elin smiled then. Soft, warm, unrushed. A kind of answer that didn’t need to be spoken.
“Then maybe,” she said, “we’re already there.”