It was a snowy day when I first set foot on foreign soil. Wrapped in a white scarf and wearing a long beige coat, my hair tied in a low ponytail with a loose scrunchie, I stepped off the plane—still unable to fully believe I had finally arrived abroad, far away from my home and everything familiar.
Though I didn't show it, a quiet surge of happiness stirred within me. I grabbed my suitcase and got into an Uber headed for my aunt's house. I didn't truly plan on staying there for long. My real goal was to reach the college I'd soon be enrolling in. I was never the type to feel comfortable living with others. Solitude had always felt like peace to me. But my mother insisted—for safety.
That thought alone made me feel a little suffocated. Still, I was happy. This was something I had truly wanted. Staying at my aunt's place would just be temporary—two or three days, tops. Then I could begin living on my own.
As I sat in the Uber, I gazed out the window. The soft gray-and-white snow fascinated me. It wasn't something I could see in my homeland. It looked like melting white chocolate, smooth and dreamy. The city sparkled with lights from shops and buildings—so unfamiliar, yet dazzling. And strangely enough, even in this unknown place, I felt... joy.
When I finally arrived at my aunt's house, I paid the driver with my card and rolled my suitcase to the door. She opened it with a warm smile.
"You took too long to come," she said.
I just nodded silently as she stepped aside and let me in. I pulled my suitcase inside and closed the door behind me. My eyes fell on my cousin—now in high school. I remembered him as a chaotic little kid in preschool.
"Hi," I said with a calm expression.
He glanced up from his phone and replied with a casual, "Hello," before turning his attention back to the screen.
Everyone had grown up. That realization hit me harder than I expected.
My aunt showed me to my room. "When does your college start?" she asked.
"In three days," I replied politely, as always.
"Then your classes begin on June 5th," she confirmed. "Don't be uncomfortable—make yourself at home."
I gave her a small smile.
"Also, call your mother. She's called me multiple times, worried if you made it here safely."
"I will," I replied. "But do you know how I can get a phone number here? Mine stopped working when I left."
"You don't have to worry," she said. "I've got everything you need."
I nodded with a grateful smile. "Thank you."
She told me dinner would be ready soon and suggested I wash up. After she left the room, I took off my coat and scarf, walked into the bathroom, and splashed water on my face. I washed up and changed into more comfortable clothes.
Later, I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, thinking about calling my mother. She had called many times. Despite my cold demeanor and the occasional harsh tone I used with her, I did feel sad—guilty even. The look on her face at the airport still haunted me. I had smiled then, acted as if I didn't care. But deep down, it hurt to leave.
My father had always been against this. To him, I was a failure—someone who could never succeed. Even my mother often thought I wasn't good enough. No matter how many people told me I was talented, I couldn't shake the feeling that I would just mess everything up if I tried to prove it.
I always acted like I didn't care. But maybe I did. Maybe I was just an attention-seeker in disguise.
I sighed and gripped my phone tighter. Then I lay back on the bed, my legs still dangling off the edge, staring at the ceiling as my thoughts spiraled.
My phone rang, and when I saw my mother's name on the screen, a strange heaviness settled over me. I stared at it for a moment before answering, bringing it to my ear with a quiet sigh.
"Hello," I said, my voice cold, distant—just like always.
Her voice came through the speaker, laced with worry. "Hello. Did you arrive safely? Did you face any problems?"
Each question came from a place of concern, but for some reason, they made me feel small. Not in a hateful way—just… helpless. Like I still needed constant supervision. And yet, behind that frustration, there was a quiet ache I couldn't name. I couldn't see her every day anymore. That thought alone made something tighten in my chest.
I didn't understand what I was feeling. It was like a whole forest had taken root inside me—thick, tangled, overwhelming. But I kept my tone cool. "Hmm. No need to worry."
I was lying on the bed, one arm draped over my eyes, the other holding the phone to my ear. I didn't want to talk. Not because I didn't care—maybe because I cared too much. So I ended it quickly.
"Aunt's calling me for dinner. I'm gonna go. Stay safe. Bye." I hung up before she could say anything else.
I stared at the ceiling, the silence pressing in around me. I missed her. I missed my little brother, too. As annoying as he could be sometimes with his fake maturity and constant commentary, he was the one I'd always joked with, the one I shared everything with. But missing them wouldn't change anything now.
The truth is, the real reason I came here wasn't just for college. It was to get away—from my home, from that house, from everything that held me back.
As much as I loved my mother and brother, I was tired. Tired of being constantly criticized. Of being told I wasn't good enough. And my father... I could never quite find the right word for him, but "toxic" came close. He tore people down with words and silence alike. And my mother, despite everything, never left. Maybe she couldn't. Or maybe she was just too scared to try.
I sighed and turned my head toward the window, the cold outside matching the ache inside me.
I didn't come here to be sad. I came here to be free. No more voices telling me what I could or couldn't do. No more rules holding me back. This was my life now—mine to live, mine to mess up, mine to finally breathe in.
And I would live it, even if I had to learn how to feel again.
I heard my aunt call me for dinner. Without rushing, I got up and made my way to the dining table, my footsteps soft against the floor. I took a seat and offered a quiet greeting to her husband—my uncle, whom I was meeting for the first time. A simple nod. Barely audible words. Just enough to be polite. I wasn't the type to initiate small talk or pretend warmth I didn't feel. Social interactions never came naturally to me. I preferred the silence of my own company.
I picked up my spoon and began to eat. The food was good—seasoned well, comforting—but it wasn't my mother's. A fleeting heaviness pressed against my chest at the realization that I wouldn't taste her cooking again for a long time. Still, I kept chewing, expression flat.
"How is the food? Did you like it?" my aunt asked.
I looked up briefly, masking everything with a practiced calm. "It's delicious. I liked it," I said, tone even, detached.
I finished quickly, excused myself with a quiet thank you, and returned to the bedroom. Turning off the lights, I sat by the window. Snow fell softly beyond the glass, glowing under the faint streetlights. Despite the heater humming quietly in the room, I felt something almost warm in my chest watching the snowfall. For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to play in it—with someone.
Then I shook the thought away. Ridiculous. I didn't need anyone. I never had.
"I'm fine alone," I whispered to myself. It wasn't entirely true, but I'd convinced myself it was better this way. Safer. Wanting anything more—companionship, understanding—only made me vulnerable. And vulnerability was dangerous.
There was a time I wished I could grow up quickly, just to escape. To be old enough to leave, to disappear from the place and people who never tried to understand me. Even when I had friends, the loneliness didn't leave. When they talked, I listened. But whenever I spoke, they'd change the subject, like my thoughts weren't worth hearing. Eventually, I stopped trying.
So I decided I'd finish college the same way I started it—on my own terms. Distant. Independent. Self-contained.
Two days passed like that. When it was finally time to leave my aunt's house, I packed my suitcase, wrapped my white scarf around my neck, tied my hair back into a low ponytail, and shrugged on my beige coat. My backpack hung over one shoulder.
"If you need anything, feel free to call me. And make sure you go the way I told you," my aunt said.
I nodded once.
"Let me know when you get to the dorm."
Another nod. Then I left.
The cold outside didn't bother me. The sun filtered faintly through the sky, casting a pale glow on the snow-covered streets. The air was sharp, clean. It felt better than home.
I took an Uber to the dorm. My room was cozy—simple, clean. Shared, apparently, though my roommate hadn't shown up yet. I didn't care either way. I unpacked quickly, laid out the comforter I brought with me, and arranged my things methodically. Efficient. Neat. Controlled.
The next morning, I dressed for orientation. Hoodie. Baggy jeans. Tote bag slung over my shoulder. Hair in the usual low ponytail. I didn't bother with makeup or effort. What was the point?
Outside the college gates, someone bumped into me—hard enough to throw me off balance. I caught myself before I could fall and turned sharply to see a guy walking away without so much as a glance back.
I followed a few steps, not out of desperation—but principle.
"Don't you think you should say sorry?" I said, my voice cool, sharp.
He looked back at me with disinterest. "Okay," he said with a shrug, then kept walking.
I stared after him, irritation prickling beneath my skin. But I didn't call after him. I didn't want to start a fight—not on my first day. He wasn't worth it.
I stood there for a second, brushing invisible dust off my sleeve, then turned and walked the other way—back into my own quiet, self-made world.
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