My Girls

Merida
A story for my girls, by Annie Reynolds

As graduation approaches, I have been doing a ton of reflecting.

So... Merida.
Where do I even start with this house?

It wasn’t just where five of us lived.
It was where ten, eleven, twelve of us lived.
Like really, fully lived.
We made that place home for way more people than were ever technically on the lease.

The door was always open.
Like, literally. Never locked.
(I know that’s bad — sorry, Mom.)
But that’s just how it was.
It was the kind of house people walked into unannounced.
And honestly? We loved that.
We thrived on that.

Always coming home to a couch full of friends,
or a wave followed by a big hi from our perfect porch.
We’d get the same questions over and over:
“Wait… who actually lives here?”
“You don’t live here?”
“But you’re always here??”
Yup.
That was Merida.
Even if your name wasn’t on the lease,
your heart lived in that house.

Somehow, we all just… belonged.

Porch time. Couch time.
Music always playing.
Someone yelling something from the kitchen.
Someone else halfway into your closet asking,
“Wait, can I borrow this?”

Feti nights.
Overstuffed Uber XLs.
Screaming songs out the windows like we were starring in a movie.
Grace narrating the scenes like she was filming a full-blown documentary.

The dance parties?
Man, were they legendary.
They’d start off innocent —
a song, a bit, screaming our hearts out,
ya know, the usual.
And suddenly…
the costume bin is out,
someone’s raiding your drawers,
and someone else is sprinting downstairs yelling,
“Wait! Lock the front door! It’s turning into one of those nights!”

The only time we ever locked that house
was for the late-night naked dance parties.
One piece of clothing flying through the air
sent the rest of us down the line.
And honestly, it just made sense.

And the pranks?
We were always cooking something up.
Fake storms, bathroom disasters, random alarms.
Text threads. Outfit swaps.
The classic “let’s all dress like her for dinner” chaos.
It kept the energy alive.
It kept us alive.

I genuinely envy the girls moving in now.
Really.
They’re about to fall in love with every imperfect part 
the chipped paint,
the weirdly warped floors,
the moldy shower (sorry, but it’s true),
the toilet that made its own rules (don’t ask, we don’t know),
and the random holes in the wall that no one could fully explain, 
but no one questioned.

They’ll get ready with the doors wide open,
TV blasting music,
clothes flying through the hallway,
someone yelling,
“Does this look cute or like... too much?”

And I hope they fill that porch.
Morning coffee, late-night talks, post-formal gossip.
Drinks in solo cups or coffee mugs — didn’t matter.
That porch meant everything.

It was where we cried, laughed, layed out in the sun abd feel asleep,
We read, danced, kissed people we maybe shouldn’t have,
and had some of the most healing conversations of our lives.
Someone was always out there.
And if not, someone was on the couch.
You were never alone, even if you wanted to be.
And weirdly, that’s what I needed.

The giggles were constant.
Like, actual nonstop.
You’d walk in and someone would already be mid-laugh,
and you’d just join in.
No idea what was funny. Didn’t matter.
You were in it now.

And the footsteps,
we always knew who was walking in by the sound.
Door creaks...
“Ope, here comes Tina.”
And we’d be right.

The Chapin running list of nicknames?
Still growing.
Now it’s becoming our official pregame game:
List all the Chapin nicknames we've ever heard.
Each one has a story.
Each one lives in the walls of that house.

We had stories that didn’t even seem real.
Cass getting dropped off at a warehouse, 
a single digit wrong on the address,
and suddenly, it’s not 2700 Merida, it’s 3700 Media,
and next thing we know…
bloody face, burnt-off eyelashes,
and our best friend looking like she just crawled out of a horror movie.

Obviously, we loaded into the Churb the next day to check out the scene.
We turned the scariest, weirdest nights into laughter.
Because that’s what we do.

Me locking my roommates out,
them thinking I was dead inside.
Yup. A locksmith broke in that night.
Real friends right there, they had to make sure I was okay.

I miss the scary movie nights I never made it through
(because I’m a fidgety baby and also a complete scaredy cat).
I miss waking up after a night out,
loading into the Churb…

 the Chapin Suburban,
windows down, last night’s makeup, coffee in hand,
headed to… somewhere.
Where? Who knows.
Didn’t matter.
We were together.

We rotted on that couch like royalty.
Blankets everywhere, legs tangled,
someone half-off the armrest.
Mid-movie snoozes.
Someone always with their head in someone else’s lap.
That’s what I’ll miss.

I found my people in that house.
The kind who show up without being asked.
Who protect each other.
Who know when to throw the door open —
and when to quietly close it.

We learned how to let go of the people who didn’t deserve us,
and how to hold tight to the ones who did.

We fought.
We forgave.
We got better at the hard stuff.
We trusted.
We loved.

We cried over boys.
(So many dumb ones.)
The ones we already laugh about.
The ones we will laugh about.
And no matter what…
we always ended those nights with a drive,
a milkshake,
or a windows-down scream-sing into the night.

Because we had each other.
And that was always enough.

So, to the girls moving in next.
You’re stepping into something special.
Something messy. Loud. Beautiful. Chaotic.
And so, so full of love.

I hope you dance.
I hope you prank each other.
I hope you laugh so hard you can’t breathe,
and cry so hard you feel safe.
I hope you lock the door when it gets weird.
I hope you really live in that house.
Because she’s magic.

Merida changed my life.
And looking back now…
I just feel so dang lucky.

To the girls who made it what it was,
I love you.

Thanks for giving me something that makes saying goodbye so hard. This is not goodbye, it is just a see you soon. There is so much more to come.
You’ll always be my little pieces of Merida,
wherever we go next.