Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Hometown Roots

Collin

The knock came soft - polite. Like he was waiting to be invited into a museum, not my bedroom.

I looked up from where I was folding laundry on my bed, one of my old softball tees in my hand, already faded around the collar.

"It's open," I called, and my voice cracked a little when I said it - because for some reason, this felt bigger than it should.

Billie stepped in slowly, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans like he wasn't sure what to do with them. He looked around like the walls were sacred. Maybe they were.

"I've never been in here before," he said softly, like he was aware of the weight of it. "Felt like I'd get struck by lightning or something if I even tried."

"You might still," I said, teasing just to lighten it, but I watched him take it all in - the posters, the photos, the shelves that held pieces of a girl I used to be.

He wandered in a little further, head tilted. His eyes flicked to my bookshelf, past the Polaroids of me and Erin in middle school, and the ribbon from my tenth grade poetry contest. He lingered at my desk.

The postcards were still there.

One from Plymouth Rock - the very first one he sent. - and one from Florida. Derek's Florida. The one with the stupid alligator on it. Billie picked them up gently, his thumb brushing the edge like they were precious.

"You kept these," he said.

"Of course I did," I replied, suddenly self conscious.

He turned to me, the smallest smile playing on his lips. "You kept everything."

I shrugged, looking down at the shirt in my hands. "I guess... part of me thought maybe if I didn't erase it all, it meant it mattered. Even the hard stuff."

He set the postcards back where they were and looked around again, this time slower, softer.

"This room is so... you," he said finally.

I raised an eyebrow. "Is that good or bad?"

"It's perfect," he said. "It's like... seeing the parts of you I didn't get to meet yet."

I felt the breath catch in my throat. The room felt warmer somehow. Familiar, but new. Like I was showing him a secret I didn't know I still kept.

He walked over to the nightstand, where an old cassette player still sat next to a stack of tapes. One of them had ''Joy Division" written in thick black sharpie, a little worn around the corners. He smiled when he saw it.

"Still works?" he asked.

I nodded. "Sometimes it eats tapes, though."

He laughed, and then he looked at me, eyes still smiling, voice quieter.

"Thanks for letting me in."

I looked at him, really looked at him. At the boy standing in my childhood room like he belonged there. Like he was meant to see this version of me, the one before New York, the one before the heartbreak, before California, before him.

"Thanks for knocking," I said.

He reached for my hand, and I let him take it. We stood there for a moment, just breathing in the stillness of it all.

In the place where I grew up.

His thumb brushed the inside of my palm, soft, slow. Like he knew I needed this second to last a little longer.

"You know..." Billie said, glancing around again, his eyes resting on the softball trophy next to a faded photo of me in a uniform two sizes too big, "You can bring whatever you want with you. Posters. Photos. That cassette player that chews tapes. All of it."