Under the New York Sky | ✔️

•C h a p t e r O n e•

"No, I'm good," I responded. "I'd like to see my room, and unpack if that's alright."

She came out from the kitchen and nodded, but from the way she was scrutinizing me with her dark eyes and knitted eyebrows, I knew she was deciding if she should force me to eat or not.

She must've decided against it. "First door on your left," she headed back into the kitchen, her dark brown hair swinging in her ponytail.

My aunt was my dad's sister, but I'd only actually met her a couple times before... everything went so wrong. She lived permanently in New York, where my dad was originally from until he decided he was tired of the loud city all the time. I guess Ontario was better, even though it was just as loud of a city as this one. Aunt Claire was my only living relative as my grandparents from both sides had already passed away, and my mom had no siblings.

I made my way to my new room, my eyes trailing over the empty white walls in the hall and stepped inside. I was not surprised at the luxury it held. There was a queen sized bed in the middle of the room, leaning against the wall, already set up with baby blue bedsheets, comforters and pillows. There was a desk in the corner of the room, with pens and paper neatly stacked on top. The wall was painted white, and completely bare.

It was a gorgeously elegant room, I couldn't deny it. But as I sat down heavily on the soft bed, an empty feeling settled in my stomach. This was a nice room, but it wasn't my room. My room back home was painted pink from my more shameful pre-teen years, with mounds of priceless pictures and drawings I'd accumulated throughout my life taped on the walls. I sighed a deep sigh and began taking out my clothes from my suitcase.

I hung them up one by one, trying to push away my thoughts of home. The closet was a small walk in closet, which was more than what I could ask for, and way larger than my old closet. But still, my old closet and my room had a cozy feel to it, this just felt foreign.

When I finally unpacked and felt a bit settled in, the sun had already disappeared behind the large skyscrapers. I hastily slipped into my pyjamas — the ones my mom had gotten for me last Christmas — and plopped down on the bed in the dark, staring at the photo of my mom and I that I'd set on the nightstand.

I'm going to be strong. This place could be worse, and I could be thrown into the foster care system if it weren't for Aunt Claire.

And to think that I was a huge brat to her today. I felt a pang of guilt about not saying a word to her the whole plane ride, but truthfully, I just couldn't being myself to say anything at all. How could I explain this heavy feeling in my heart?

I'm going to be strong. I repeated to myself. People have it way worse than you.

My eyes burned into the picture and they began to sting with unshed tears again. I turned and stared up at the foreign ceiling above me, letting my tears soak the pillow.

My mind drifted to the funeral we had just a few days before. My friends from home all came and sat with me, offering their condolences but what did it matter? They hadn't a clue how this felt. They had both their parents, alive and well, and I had none. I couldn't save my mother, it all happened too fast.

I gave my speech successfully, and never shed a tear at the service. Not even when they lowered her casket down to the ground.

My mom had always taught me not to show weakness in front of others. They would find a way to take advantage of it one way or another, and use it against you.

This was the first time I'd let myself cry since the night of the funeral. I didn't even when I sat alone at my mom's gravestone for hours afterwards, asking and demanding my mother to tell me why she'd left me all alone, just like how my dad left us so suddenly. I shouted and screamed, but got no response, just the rustling of leaves from the trees around due to the relentless wind.