They started with a blank wall.

  Evan cleared the space above the dining table, taped up a giant sheet of butcher paper, and drew a single, bold circle in the center. In big block letters, he wrote:

  “HOME (???)”

  Aki added a doodle of two stick figures holding hands under a crooked roof.

  It was silly.

  And, somehow, also the most serious thing they’d ever done.

  By the next afternoon, the paper was covered in Post-its, doodles, arrows, coffee rings, and dreams.

  Lisbon — for the light and the language neither of them spoke.

  Amsterdam — because bikes and books and pancakes.

  Vancouver — mountains, coastlines, a slower pace.

  Barcelona, Melbourne, Taipei — each added in different colors, surrounded by lists of reasons, hesitations, questions.

  Aki wrote “good art scene?” next to Melbourne.

  Evan circled “close-ish to Tokyo” beside Taipei.

  In one corner, Aki scrawled in tiny letters: Will we still feel like us, somewhere new?

  One evening, after dinner, Evan pinned a photo to the wall — one he’d taken of Aki on the cliffs during their coastal weekend.

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  “You look like you belong to the world here,” he said.

  Aki studied the image.

  “I think that’s the first time I realized I didn’t have to fit into one place. That I could… take pieces of home with me.”

  Evan nodded, sliding onto the floor beside her.

  “Maybe that’s what we’re doing now,” he said. “Not choosing a place. Choosing a way to live.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder.

  “Then let’s make a life that’s portable,” she whispered. “Like our favorite mugs. Like your camera. Like my sketchbook.”

  He smiled. “Let’s be a country of two.”

  The more they talked, the more it stopped feeling like escape — and started feeling like a blueprint.

  They imagined lazy breakfasts on balconies, a dog they’d name after a food (Mochi was currently in the lead), a flat with big windows and creaky floors.

  They talked about the practical things too —

  Visas. Freelance permits. Health insurance.

  How to stay close to both their families.

  What to do if one of them missed home more than they expected.

  They made lists. Scrapped them. Made new ones.

  And through it all, they laughed more than they worried.

  Because dreaming together made even uncertainty feel like solid ground.

  One night, Aki stood in front of the wall of dreams, arms crossed, face serious.

  Evan walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I think… I think I want to choose a place we both have to learn. A city where neither of us has the advantage. Somewhere we’re both a little lost — so we learn how to find our way together.”

  Evan smiled into her hair. “That’s poetic. And very us.”

  Aki pulled a new Post-it from the pad.

  She wrote one word on it in capital letters:

  “MUNICH?”

  Evan tilted his head. “Bold. Unexpected. Sausages.”

  “Neutral,” Aki said. “Bikes. Good train system. Far from everywhere we’ve lived — but not impossible.”

  He plucked the note from her hand and pinned it up.

  “Let’s add it to the shortlist.”

  Later, they sat side by side in bed, legs tangled, laptops open as they compared rent prices and visa policies.

  Evan nudged her. “This is starting to feel dangerously adult.”

  She smirked. “Speak for yourself. I’m still just a girl with a sketchbook who followed a guy across the world.”

  He reached over and closed her laptop.

  “You’re the girl who made me believe I could build a life on purpose.”

  Aki set hers down too and curled into his side.

  “Let’s keep building.”

  And that night, beneath a sky draped in quiet city light, they didn’t fall asleep wondering where they would end up.

  Because they already knew who they were choosing.

  And that made all the difference.