This is Mira’s story — part fiction, part reflection, wholly honest.
(Each chapter will end with a note from her writing, signed as your trusted friend.)
🎧 Listen while you read: “Open” by Rhye
For slow intimacy, brave softness, and building a home in each other’s arms, chaos and all.
Mira’s Story: The Junk Drawer
On love, junk drawers, and letting someone see the parts you usually hide.
It started with a drawer.
Specifically, the one Mira had told Rowan not to open.
But he’d been looking for a charger, and in his defense, she hadn’t exactly labeled it a danger zone. So when he tugged gently, a small avalanche spilled out: tangled cords, dead pens, receipts, a broken crystal bracelet, two tiny plastic dinosaurs, and a Christmas ornament shaped like a Capricorn.
“…Is this… you?” he asked, holding up the goat.
Mira appeared in the doorway, holding two mugs of tea, and winced. “It was meant to be ironic. Now I think it’s prophetic.”
Rowan grinned. “You didn’t warn me it was a portal to another dimension.”
“It’s not a drawer,” she said dryly, “it’s a metaphor.”
He raised a brow. “For what?”
“My closet.”
She handed him tea.
“It used to be a depression pile. Then it evolved into a depression corner. We’re now in the final stage: the depression zone. I think it might be sentient.”
Rowan laughed, full-bodied and warm. “Do I need gloves?”
“Only if you value your fingers.”
Later, they were curled on her couch, passing one bowl of stir-fry back and forth. Her foot was tucked under his thigh, and she wore one of his hoodies with the sleeves rolled three times over. The Capricorn ornament rested on the coffee table like a quiet dare, and Rowan found himself smiling.
It felt easy. Familiar. Home-adjacent.
He nudged the ornament with his foot. “That drawer,” he said. “The mess. It got me thinking.”
Mira looked up. “Good thinking or bad thinking?”
“Brave thinking. But not reckless.”
He hesitated, thumb grazing the mug in his hands.
“I don’t want to keep going home to a house that only holds half my life. I’ve just been wondering what it might feel like to come home to the same place. On purpose.”
She raised a brow.
“I’ve seen your hidden chaos. It’s not airbrushed. It’s real. And it made me want to be here more, not less.”
Oh.
There it was.
The sentence that cracked something open. She wanted to joke, but it caught in her throat.
Because it was exactly what she wanted. And it terrified her.
She snorted anyway, staying playful.
“If you’re looking for something brave, I’ve got a pile of unpaid parking tickets with your name on them.”
From down the hall, Pepper called out, “You mean the ones I always find under the wiper?”
Mira rolled her eyes. Rowan didn’t look away.
“Not tomorrow. Not rushed. But… soon. If it feels right.”
Mira set the fork down slowly.
“Rowan…”
She pulled her knees up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her voice softened. “If we’re going to talk about it… I need to be honest.”
He nodded, instantly present.
“I want that. I do. But… I’m scared that if you see all the parts of me, the parts you’d need to see if we lived together, you might change your mind.”
He didn’t speak. Just waited.
“Most months, I overdraft my checking account. I rob Peter to pay Paul and pray there’s enough left for groceries. I don’t tell Pepper how tight it is, I don’t want her to carry it. I handle everything. Bills. Laundry. School stuff. Meltdowns. I can do it… but it’s a lot.”
She exhaled. Her gaze drifted.
“It wasn’t always like this. Growing up, everything was about money. Fear of not having enough. We reused wrapping paper. Never bought new clothes. I thought we were poor. Maybe we were. Now, I overcorrect. I buy the good shampoo for Pepper. The cereal she actually likes. Even if it means ramen for me.”
A wry smile tugged at her mouth.
“And then I ignore the envelopes. The ones with the windows. I stuff them in drawers and pretend they don’t exist. I think… maybe that’s where the shame lives.”
She glanced at him.
“I know you’ve probably figured this stuff out. And I’m still fumbling. I don’t want to be the one someone has to make space for.”
Rowan let out a slow breath.
“You think I’ve figured it out,” he said. “But I only got good with money because I had to. After my mom died, my dad checked out. Blew through what we had. I watched everything fall apart.”
His voice was quiet. Grounded.
“I got serious because I was scared. I’m steady now because I had to learn control. But I can overdo it. I clamp down when things feel uncertain.”
He looked at her then, not through her.
“But I don’t want control. I want us. Something we build. Together. That holds when things get hard.”
She nodded, but her voice wavered.
“It’s not just the bills I’m scared of. I’m scared to rely on anyone. Because if I let go… if I make space… and then it falls apart again…”
Her throat tightened.
“The last time I let someone in like this, I lost everything in a morning. He told me it wasn’t working while shampooing his hair and I was brushing my teeth. Three years. A whole life. Gone before I even spit out my toothpaste.”
Rowan’s hand found hers.
“I don’t want to rescue you,” he said. “I want to build with you. Because I love you. Because I see you. And I’d be honored to help carry what you’ve been holding. Not to fix it. Just to be in it with you.”
Mira blinked fast, emotions rising.
“I just don’t want to be one more thing for you to take care of.”
“You’re not a thing,” he said softly. “You’re my person.”
He squeezed her hand.
“I didn’t fall for you because you had it all together. I fell for the way you show up. For how you love. For how my house breathes differently when you’re in it.”
His smile was soft. Intimate.
“When you’re there, Cal tells more jokes. Ellie stops trying to be perfect. Even Pepper storms in like she owns the place. And me? I feel like I’m finally home.”
He traced her knuckle.
“You’re not the one someone has to make space for, Mira. You are the space. You’ve held everyone else for so long, I think you forgot that you deserve to be held, too.”
Something in her cracked, but it didn’t shatter.
It softened.
No one had ever said that to her before.
She swallowed, voice low.
“I do want it. I want ease. I want help. I want someone to take the trash out without asking, and remember the lightbulbs. I want to believe I can want those things and still be strong.”
He tucked a curl behind her ear.
“I want your mess,” he said. “Not to fix it. Just to be in it with you.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Okay,” she whispered. “But we’re labeling the junk drawer next time.”
He smiled. “Deal.”
Letters from The Clever Confidante: “The Space We Keep“
How connection holds the parts we think are too much
There’s the space we show people;
the tidy corners, the curated calm, the illusion of togetherness.
And then there’s the space behind the door.
The junk drawer of your heart.
The closet of coping mechanisms.
The cupboard where all the grief and half-finished healing lives.
We don’t open those places easily.
They’re too tender. Too chaotic. Too real.
But true connection doesn’t ask for perfection.
It asks for access.
Not all at once. Not without permission.
But slowly, steadily, with hands that say,
“I see your mess, and I’m not leaving.”
Letting someone in isn’t weakness.
It’s bravery in motion.
It’s saying:
“Here’s where I hide the parts I haven’t sorted.”
“Here’s where it gets loud.”
“Here’s where I’m still learning.”
And when the right one stays?
Not to clean you up,
But to sit beside you while you sort what still fits?
That’s where the understanding really happens.
It happens in the space where we reveal the edges,
the sore spots that rub, the stories that shaped us,
the fears we’ve tucked away behind our reactions.
Because when we don’t speak them,
those wounds become friction.
The tension in every disagreement.
The snap in a conversation that never really began.
I read about a couple who always fought about money.
On the surface, it was about spending.
But underneath?
His childhood taught him that stability could vanish overnight.
He swore he’d never be left without a safety net again.
Hers taught her that ‘someday’ might never come.
That waiting too long could mean missing everything.
They weren’t wrong.
They were just speaking different dialects of fear.
The places we argue the most
are often the places we’re most afraid.
Most tender. Most in need of gentleness.
So, when we choose to name those wounds,
when we stop guarding and start sharing,
we shift the whole story.
We stop defending,
and start understanding.
Because some things do need clearing.
Old patterns.
False stories.
The shame that made you shrink.
But love?
Love makes space.
Even for the things we haven’t folded neatly yet.
Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤️
What’s in your metaphorical junk drawer? What part of you is still learning to believe it’s lovable? Leave a comment or share this with someone who’s earned a key to your chaos.
☁️ New here? You can start Mira’s Story from the beginning with Chapter Zero.
➡️✨ Continue Mira’s Story with Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Shape of Something Honest
✨ Want more love notes like this? Subscribe, stay close, and let’s keep growing in the quiet spaces together.
Discover more from The Clever Confidante
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
1 thought on “Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Junk Drawer”