Chapter 1- Boxes, Silence, and a Song.
Some beginnings feel fragile.
Some feel impossible.
And some… just whisper that maybe, somehow, we can bloom again.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not the soft kind of quiet that hugs you — the kind that feels hollow, like you've stepped into a place that hasn't learned your name yet.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by half-open boxes. The one labeled FRAGILE rested closest to me. I hadn't opened it since we left.
A strip of tape clung stubbornly to the top, edges curled and dusty from the road. My fingers hovered over it, hesitant. I wasn't sure what would spill out if I did — glass, maybe. Or memories.
Mom's text buzzed across the screen beside me:
"Unpack slowly. Don't rush yourself. Dinner's in the fridge."
That was it. No emojis. No "love you."
Just soft concern folded into practical words — the kind of message she sends when she's trying not to say too much.
I typed back "Okay."
Then deleted it.
Then typed it again.
The walls echoed slightly, as if even they were unsure how to hold my silence.
There was a small window by the corner. Afternoon light poured in — sharp, golden, alive. It caught the dust in the air, making it shimmer like tiny stars had followed us here.
Somewhere outside, a voice laughed.
A girl's voice.
I pushed the curtain aside. Down the street, a few kids were playing near a cracked basketball court. One of them — a girl with a green scarf and a laugh too familiar — turned, and for a split second, I froze.
Khadijah?
My breath caught before logic stepped in. No. Not her. Just someone else. Someone who reminded me of everything I've been trying to pack away.
I let the curtain fall.
Later, when the sky began to fade into soft purples, I found my journal buried under a pile of clothes. Its spine was bent, a little torn, but still mine.
I opened it, flipped to a blank page, and wrote:
"New house. New street. Same ache."
"Maybe this time, I'll learn how to breathe again."
The words looked small and lost on the paper.
Still, they were something.
I closed the journal, placed it gently beside the FRAGILE box, and whispered —
almost like a promise, almost like a prayer:
"Still, we bloom."