𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕀𝕗 𝕀 𝔻𝕚𝕖 [ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕡𝕝𝕖𝕥𝕖𝕕]

꧁ ℂ𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟷 ℙ𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟸 - 𝔸𝚗𝚍 𝙸𝚏 𝙸 𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗 ꧂

꧁ 𝔸𝕕𝕒'𝕤 ℙ.𝕆.𝕍 ꧂

The car journey feels too long. The government officer is trying to be chatty, so he must be new. Most officers are fed up with the repetitive task of watching goodbyes and trying to cheer the 18-year-olds up, while keeping their faces and voices monotone, which usually isn't very comforting. I answer his questions in the shortest manner possible, but maintain a stiff politeness in my tone. It's getting tiring and he won't stop asking about my personal life. I'd rather listen to his, so when he asks me about my feelings on this city, I return the question, "How about you?" He looks slightly stunned, but recovers and launches into a long-winded speech on his opinion on the great views and sceneries that he had seen in the past few months living here. I pay firm attention, nodding along with his statements. Finally he grows quiet as we draw near a colossal tower. "Here's your new home," he whispers in awe. I must be his first escortee. He's clearly never seen The Solstice before. The colossal, sleek, glass building which stands cold and indifferent, waiting for new teenagers ready to start living as a lone citizen. It feels familiar, and cold. Cold yes, but at least it's familiar.

The lobby smells metallic and icy, like an operation room. The officer speaks curtly with the receptionists and I sit stiffly on a velvet chair, stroking the material and keeping my gaze on the floor. I tend to blink too much trying to focus on a crowded scenery. I stare at the pattern swirls on the carpet floor and prod the each polka dot with my foot in turns until I am called to fill out a form. I write quickly, as if this will make the process go any faster, then halt abruptly at the end.

_____________________
Signature of new citizen

My pen hovers shakily over the paper and the officer presses my hand down so the pen's fountain ink seeps a dot onto the paper. I don't even have a choice. I want to glare at him, but instead do so in my head. The ink is spreading, and staining the paper with what looks scarily like a black bullet wound. I sign slowly and deliberately, and I can almost feel the officer's frustration wavering from across him, warming the cold vice of a room. The receptionist doesn't rush me through his stare, he's probably seen reluctance a hundred times a day already. He is patient and welcomes me, though his voice is monotone, his aura is kind. The officer lifts up my luggage and passes it to a room porter, then waves at me once without waiting for an answer, turns on his foot, walking briskly back to the car. Then he's gone, with a burst of an engine and the rumble of an exhaust pipe. He's gone. All the people in my life, even the ones which are supposed to be temporary, are gone so soon. And surprisingly, they hurt more than the departures from the permanent ones. It's like they serve their purpose, then leave. And my parents never served a bigger purpose than me. So they hurt less to let go.

My room is humongous. My parents must have paid a lot. The floor is cool marble, however fuzzy carpets coat the dining room, living room, bedroom and library floor. My bedroom has a large bed with clean, new sheets with the fresh smell of finished laundry. My bed faces a large window, and I have a spectacular view of the bustling city, with a window side seat, and a large closet to keep my clothes. The bathroom is right across my room, and it is very complete, the shower, the bathtub, the sink, everything is white marble. The living room has chairs and fairly-sized sofas. The dining room only has two chairs and my kitchen is a medium-sized "L" shape. I also have a small library, which I didn't expect.

Some shelves are empty, for my future collection, and most are full with a lot of books early. My parents must have told the staff of my passion for books earlier. The staff don't expect me to pay rent for two months, while I find a job. I unpack my clothes into the huge closet and some of my books into the shelves, I've packed too many. And I may have accidentally overindulged on the luxurious bathroom supplies, and I smelled too strongly of scented soap, aromatic scrubs and fragranced oils afterwards. Then, I get used to the kitchen and its appliances. Simple tasks like brewing some coffee and making use of the freezer by making ice cubes make the room more comfortable for me. I have too much free time on my hands now, so I end up lying idly on the couches and doing nothing the whole casual afternoon and evening, staring lazily at the fluffy, dreamy, pink clouds hovering above the bright sunset, dyeing the city a rich golden colour.

The room feels too unfamiliar to eat in, so I skip dinner. Instead I lie in the sheets, trying to break it in, and cracking the stiffness that every new blanket and bed has. Once it feels soft enough, I drink the coffee I made, which was cold by now and I don't happen to mind, only to pour half of it away. Today feels like a dream. I brush my teeth in the library, trying to squeeze as many books of mine as I can onto one shelf, to leave space for the future's collections. Finally, I collapse onto my bed, body exhausted but mentally awake. Tomorrow I will find a job. I promise myself, no more strolling endlessly through my room, indulging in nothing. I'll look around the city, explore the world, or just say "hi" to my neighbours. Somehow, someday, I'll have to get used to this. To the window view of the city, to the cold material of the floor, to the faces I'll see around here. But I'll only ever be accepted if I open up. And if I watch. And if I observe.

And If I Learn.

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