Karla
The air smells different here.
Not better or worse, just unfamiliar. Heavy with car exhaust, roasted peanuts from a nearby cart, and something sharp I can't name. It clings to my coat as I step out of JFK, clutching the strap of my duffel bag like it's the only thing tethering me to the ground.
This is it. New York City.
I grip the cold handle of my suitcase, my fingers stiff from the long flight, and I tell myself I'm not going to cry. Not here. Not again.
I've done enough of that.
Eleven years and still, grief lives in me like an old tenant. Quiet, mostly. But it knows how to make noise when it wants to.
I was only twelve when I lost them. My father in the passenger seat, my mother behind the wheel. One second they were dropping me off at a sleepover, the next... headlines, flashing lights, my aunt's arms wrapped around me in a hospital corridor that still haunts my dreams.
Aunt Evelyn. She raised me with tired hands and a heart full of good intentions. My mother's older sister was graceful, strict, and elegant in that way women from another era always seem to be. She never married. Said she didn't have the patience. But she loved me fiercely. Enough to put her entire life on pause for a girl too broken to speak.
Now she's gone too.
Not in a tragic way, just... age. Time. Quiet and slow, like the way she used to read aloud at night when the nightmares came. Her voice is still with me sometimes. Especially today.
Especially now.
I exhale and move toward the taxi stand, trying not to look too lost. It's hard to look confident with sleep-deprived eyes and nerves buzzing in your stomach like a warning bell.
Aunt Evelyn used to say New York doesn't wait for anyone.
She was right.
An hour later, I'm standing outside a brownstone in Brooklyn, the key digging into my palm. I took over the lease from a girl I met in an online roommate forum, Tessa Monroe, 24, a fashion student and city native. She sounded normal. Mostly.
I climb the stairs slowly. My body aches, and my heart feels too big for my chest.
This city holds pieces of my mother I've never seen. Her childhood. Her secrets. Her everything. And maybe, if I survive long enough here, I'll find those pieces and make something new out of them.
The door opens before I can knock.
"You must be Karla," says the girl with bubblegum pink hair and a paint-splattered sweatshirt. Her grin is huge, her eyeliner perfect. "I thought you'd be taller."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"Yeah. That's me."
"Tessa," she says, extending a hand. "Come in. Welcome to the madness."
I step inside. The place is small, lived-in and warm. There are candles burning in the corner and a wall full of Polaroids near the kitchen. It smells like vanilla and something spicy, maybe hope, maybe fear.
It's not home.
Not yet.
But it's a start.
And for now… that's enough.
Tessa leads me down a narrow hallway, talking a mile a minute. Her voice bounces between the exposed brick walls and worn hardwood floor.
"So, there's one bathroom. We share. You get used to it. Just don't flush while I'm in the shower and we'll be friends forever."
I nod, trailing behind her with my suitcase wheels clicking against the floor. Everything feels surreal. Like I'm walking through someone else's life.
She pushes open the last door on the left. "Here we are. The Karla Cave."
It's small, barely enough space for a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe, but the window lets in the afternoon light, and someone's strung fairy lights along the wall like an afterthought. The sheets are new. Lavender. A little note sits on the pillow:
"Welcome to the mess. Let's survive together, Tessa."
Something tugs in my chest.
I blink fast and turn away before she can see the tears welling.
Tessa leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You okay?"
I force a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."
She nods like she doesn't quite believe me but lets it go. "I get it. New city. New everything. Trust me, I've been the 'new girl.' It sucks. But tomorrow's a new day. And this," she gestures to the room, "this is home now."
She leaves me alone, and I sink onto the bed.
My fingers brush over the note again.
I don't unpack. Not yet. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to quiet the ache in my chest.
Tomorrow is my first day.
The internship. The beginning.
The new life I told myself I could handle.
I just hope I wasn't wrong.