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 low with a loose scrunchie, I stepped off the plane—still unable to fully believe I had arrived. Abroad. Far from home. Far from everything that had once defined me.
Though my expression remained calm, a quiet current of happiness stirred deep within. I collected my suitcase and climbed into an Uber bound for my aunt's house. It wasn't meant to be a long stay—just a temporary stop before college began. I had always craved solitude. Peace. My own space. But my mother had insisted on this arrangement—for safety.
That thought alone left me feeling a little suffocated.
Still, I was happy. This was what I had wanted for so long. Staying at my aunt's house would be brief. Two, maybe three days. After that, I could finally start living on my own.
As the car moved through the unfamiliar city, I gazed out the window in silence. The snow outside—soft gray and white—mesmerized me. In my homeland, we didn't have snow. Here, it looked like melting white chocolate, smooth and dreamy. The city sparkled with lights from countless shops and buildings—foreign, yet dazzling. And oddly, in the middle of this unfamiliar place, I felt something real: joy.
When we arrived, I paid the driver with my card and rolled my suitcase to the door. My aunt greeted me with a warm smile.
"You took too long to come," she said.
I gave a small nod as she stepped aside to let me in. My cousin was there too—now in high school. I remembered him as a chaotic preschooler, a bundle of noise and energy.
"Hi," I said softly, offering a neutral expression.
He glanced up from his phone. "Hello." Then he went right back to whatever he was doing. So much had changed. Everyone had grown up. The realization hit 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 I always did.
"Then your classes begin on the 5th," she said, confirming it aloud. "Don't feel uncomfortable. This is your home too."
I gave her a faint smile.
"Oh, and call your mother," she added. "She's called me multiple times, worried sick."
"I will," I said. "But do you know how I can get a phone number here? Mine stopped working when I landed."
"You don't need to worry," she assured me. "I've taken care of everything."
I nodded, grateful. "Thank you."
She told me dinner would be ready soon and suggested I freshen up. After she left, I removed my coat and scarf and walked into the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, then changed into more comfortable clothes.
Later, I sat on the edge of the bed with my phone in hand, staring at the screen. My mother had called many times already. I felt sad—guilty, even. The image of her face at the airport lingered in my mind. I had smiled back then, acted like I didn't care. But leaving had hurt more than I wanted to admit.
My father had stayed quiet, but I could see the sadness in his eyes. He didn't say much, but I knew.
I had always acted like I didn't care. Maybe I thought it made things easier. Maybe I believed it protected me.
I sighed and gripped my phone a little tighter. Then, with a quiet thump, I lay back on the bed, one arm draped over my eyes. My thoughts spiraled.
The phone buzzed in my hand. It was her—again.
A heaviness settled in my chest.
I answered.
"Hello," I said, my voice distant, cool, guarded.
Her voice came through, worried and soft. "Hello, sweetheart. Did you arrive safely? Was everything okay?"
Each question chipped away at the mask I wore. Her concern made me feel small, exposed. And still, beneath that quiet frustration, something else stirred—a dull ache that wouldn't leave. I couldn't see her anymore. I couldn't just walk into the next room and hear her laugh or her scolding.
I didn't know what I was feeling. It was like a forest growing wild inside me—thick, tangled, choking.
But I kept my voice steady. "Hmm. No need to worry."
A lie.
I rested on the bed, the phone held loosely to my ear. I didn't want to talk. Not because I didn't care—but maybe because I cared too much.
"Aunt's calling me for dinner. I'm going to go. Stay safe. Bye."
I ended the call before she could say another word.
Silence returned. I missed her. I missed my little sister, too—annoying as she could be with her endless chatter. She was the one I joked with, the one I shared everything with.
But missing them wouldn't change anything.
The truth was, I hadn't come here just for college. I came to start something new. Something mine.
As much as I loved my parents, I needed this. A new beginning.
I turned my head toward the window. Snow fell silently outside. It mirrored the ache in my chest—quiet, cold, beautiful.
I hadn't come here to be sad. I came to be free.
No more voices telling me what I could or couldn't do. No more rules, no more expectations. This was my life now. Mine to live. Mine to get wrong. Mine to breathe in.
And I would live it—even if I had to relearn how to feel.
When my aunt called for dinner, I rose quietly and walked to the dining table. My footsteps were soft against the wooden floor.
I offered a polite nod to my uncle—meeting him for the first time.
"Hello," I said quietly.
That was all.
I wasn't one for small talk. I didn't pretend to be warm when I wasn't. Socializing never came naturally to me. I found comfort in silence.
I began to eat. The food was good—warm, seasoned, familiar in flavor. But it wasn't my mother's cooking. That simple truth pressed a quiet ache against my ribs. Still, I chewed steadily, expression unreadable.
"How is it? Do you like it?" my aunt asked.
I looked up and smiled faintly. "It's delicious. I liked it."
After dinner, I excused myself with a quiet thank you and returned to my room. I turned off the lights and sat by the window, staring out at the snow beyond the glass. It glowed beneath the streetlights—soft and dreamlike.
Despite the heater humming behind me, I felt warmth stir in my chest as I watched.
For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to play in the snow—with someone.
But I quickly shook the thought away. Ridiculous. I didn't need anyone. I never had.
"I'm fine alone," I whispered.
It wasn't entirely true. But I had convinced myself it was safer that way.
Wanting more—companionship, connection—only made you vulnerable. And vulnerability was dangerous.
There was a time I used to wish I could grow up faster, just so I could leave. Escape. Be old enough to disappear from the people who never understood me.
Even when I had friends, the loneliness never left. They talked, and I listened. But when I spoke, they'd change the subject—as if my voice didn't matter.
Eventually, I stopped trying.
I promised myself I would finish college the same way I started it: on my own terms. Distant. Independent. Self-contained.
Two days passed quietly.
When it was finally time to leave for the dorms, I packed my suitcase and pulled on my beige coat, my white scarf wrapped neatly around my neck. My hair was in its usual low ponytail. My backpack slung over one shoulder.
"If you need anything, call me. And go the way I told you," my aunt reminded.
I nodded once.
"Let me know when you get there."
Another nod. Then I left.
The cold outside didn't sting. The pale sun cast a silver sheen over the snow-covered streets. The air was sharp, pure. It felt cleaner than home.
I arrived at the dorm. The room was small but warm. Simple. Shared—apparently, though my roommate hadn't shown up yet. I didn't mind. I unpacked quickly, placing my things with care. Everything neat. Everything in control.
The next morning, I dressed for orientation. Hoodie. Baggy jeans. Tote bag over my shoulder. No makeup. No effort. No need.
Outside the college gates, someone bumped into me. Hard. I stumbled, caught myself, and turned to look.
A guy, walking away. Didn't even glance back.
I followed him for a few steps—not from desperation, but on principle.
"Don't you think you should say sorry?" I called, voice cool and sharp.
He turned, disinterested. "Okay," he said with a shrug, and walked on with his friends before I could reply.
I stared after him, irritation simmering beneath my skin. But I didn't chase him. I wouldn't start a fight—not on the first day.
He wasn't worth it.
I brushed invisible dust off my sleeve, turned, and walked the other way—back into my own quiet, self-made world.
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