Every morning for ninety-three days, I've checked the weather in Portland, Oregon. I don't live there. I live in a one-bedroom in Akron with a radiator that hisses like a disappointed parent.
Today's forecast: fifty-four and drizzly. I looked it up before I even brushed my teeth.
I found my old spelling-bee ribbon last week, third place, 1997, in a shoebox under the bed. I'd misspelled 'accommodate' by one letter and cried in the car, but my mother said third was still something.
The crossing guard on Maple still waves at me every morning even though I'm thirty-six and don't need crossing. Mrs. Feeney, been there since I was eight.
Nobody knows about Portland. Not my sister, not my boyfriend, not the barista who knows my order by heart.
I'm not packing yet. I haven't looked at apartments. But every morning that forecast loads on my phone like a small quiet promise.
I may never go. But the woman who checks the weather in a city she's never seen—that's someone already on her way, whether she buys a ticket or not.