The synth track loops, a hypnotic pulse that seems to breathe with the fake water reflections dancing across the MoonFort's ceiling. Megan shifts in her throne of stuffed animals—a particularly weathered unicorn serves as her armrest—and stares at the laptop screen displaying her half-finished website: "Lunar Manifestations by Megan: Your Gateway to Cosmic Clarity." The cursor blinks mockingly in an empty text box labeled "About Me."
She closes the laptop with a soft thud.
"Ugh, why is writing about yourself the worst?"
The confession hangs in the incense-thick air like a question posed to the universe itself. Through the thin garage door, she can hear Sebastian's animated Spanish conversation with Emilio drifting from the kitchen, punctuated by the occasional clatter of cookware. The domestic symphony of the Harrison household continues its eternal performance, with Megan as both audience and reluctant cast member.
Her phone buzzes. A text from someone named "Carla Crystals" asking about tarot readings. Megan stares at the message, finger hovering over the keyboard. The business she's been "launching" for three months consists mainly of one Instagram post featuring a blurry photo of her hands holding a deck of cards, captioned "Coming Soon: Your Destiny Awaits ✨"
"Destiny," she mutters, scrolling through seventeen unread messages from potential clients. "Right. Like I can barely figure out what to eat for breakfast, but sure, let me divine your future."
She opens her notes app instead, where approximately 4,000 song fragments live in digital purgatory. "Midnight Moments/ dilusional dreams / nothing's what it seems / or maybe everything's exactly what it seems?" She adds a new line: "Living in a garage but calling it a fortress / honestly kind of genius or just… hopeless?"
The mini fridge hums its mechanical lullaby. Megan approaches it again, opening the door to reveal the same contents as five minutes ago: leftover Thai food, cream for coffee, Ice teas, and a single apple that's been there so long it's achieved philosophical status.
"You know what? Today's the day I eat the apple."
She doesn't eat the apple.
Instead, she flops back onto her makeshift bed—a mattress surrounded by crystals, candles, and what appears to be a small shrine dedicated to various moon phases cut from magazines. The laptop reopens with a resigned sigh, cursor still blinking in that accusatory text box.
"Okay, Megan. You got this. Just… tell people who you are."
Her fingers hover over the keyboard. Who is she? Former college dropout turned spiritual entrepreneur turned garage dweller turned… what exactly? The question feels too big for the tiny space she's carved out of her family's world.
The fake water reflections continue their endless dance, casting moving shadows that make everything look like it's underwater. Or maybe she's the one drowning, slowly, in the comfortable suffocation of returning home. The thought should terrify her, but instead it feels oddly soothing.
"I'm Megan," she types, then deletes it. "Welcome to my cosmic corner of the internet," she tries next. Delete. "Your local chaos witch here to guide you through…" Delete, delete, delete.
The cursor blinks. Megan blinks back. It's a staring contest with her own potential, and she's losing.
Her phone buzzes again. This time it's Jill: "Mom's making dinner in like an hour. You eating with us or staying in your cave?"
Megan types back: "It's called a MoonFort, thank you very much. And… maybe? Depends if Sebastian made that soup again."
"He did. Extra spicy because he's still mad about the thermostat thing."
The thermostat thing. Right. Megan had adjusted it to 72 degrees at 3 AM last week, triggering what Jackie diplomatically called "a household discussion about energy conservation and consideration for others." Sebastian had been less diplomatic.
"Tell him I'll contribute to the electric bill when my business takes off."
"When's that happening exactly?"
Megan stares at her phone, then at her laptop, Then the mini fridge again... The question everyone's been too polite to ask directly, but it's there in every "How's the business going?" and "Any luck with the website?"
"Soon," she types, then immediately adds: "ish."
The honesty surprises her. Usually she'd deflect with jokes or cosmic nonsense about divine timing. But sitting here in her carefully constructed refuge, surrounded by the detritus of her various attempts at reinvention, the truth feels oddly liberating.
She returns to the laptop, fingers finding the keyboard with newfound purpose.
"I'm figuring it out as I go," she types into the About Me section. "Aren't we all? Sometimes the path forward looks like moving backward, and sometimes wisdom comes from admitting you don't have all the answers. But I've got good instincts, decent cards, and a genuine desire to help people find their way through the weird, wonderful mess of being human. Plus, I make really good playlists."
She pauses, reads it back, then adds: "Currently operating out of what I call the MoonFort but what everyone else calls my mom's garage. Location is temporary. Magic is not."
The cursor stops blinking. For the first time in months, Megan feels like she might actually be getting somewhere.
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