Vivian Sterling - past
It started with my parents pulling up into our new home in the suburbs. The moving truck was already there, its doors yawning open, while a pair of hired helpers unloaded our furniture. I sat in the backseat, clutching my backpack to my chest, staring at the house that was supposed to be mine at least for now.
I say supposed to be because I never really knew how long anything lasted with my parents. They were wanderers, vagabonds, always chasing after new jobs, new opportunities, or maybe just running from something they never explained to me. A year in one place was rare. Sometimes it was only a few months before we packed up and started over again.
So as I climbed out of the car and stood on the front lawn, looking up at the two-story house with its peeling shutters and neat little porch, I didn't let myself feel too much. Why call it home if it was only temporary?
The helpers bustled around me, carrying couches, boxes, a mattress wrapped in plastic. My parents were already directing traffic, telling them where things should go. I dragged myself up the steps and pushed open the front door. The air inside was stale, the faint smell of dust and old paint clinging to the walls.
I wandered through the narrow hallway, taking in the beige carpet, the scratched wood banister, the faint echo of footsteps as movers shuffled past. Then I went upstairs, knowing somehow which room would be mine. The sight of my furniture already inside gave it away. My bedframe leaned against the wall, my dresser half-scratched from the move, and in the corner sat four cardboard boxes taped shut.
That was all I had. Four boxes. My life contained in them.
I didn't own many things never had. Moving around as often as we did, there was no point in collecting souvenirs or filling shelves with knickknacks. I wasn't the outgoing type anyway. No trophies, no photo albums with friends. Just books, clothes, a few notebooks, and the stuffed rabbit I'd had since I was five. Everything I cared about could fit into those boxes, and sometimes I wondered if that made me small, or just practical.
But tucked among the books and shirts were the pieces of me that mattered most: my sketchbooks, filled with smudged pencil drawings and pages stained with watercolor. Some drawings were finished, others abandoned halfway, but each one carried a piece of me. Landscapes from windows I once stared out of, faces I'd imagined but never met, bursts of color that reflected feelings I never said aloud.
Then there was my camera, scratched and worn but still precious. Inside one of the boxes were a handful of photographs sunsets I chased when no one was watching, trees bent in the wind, the empty corners of towns we'd left behind. I didn't take pictures of people much. People left. But places, light, and color stayed with me.
Painting and taking photos had become the only proof that I'd been anywhere. When friendships and homes didn't last, at least the paint stains on my fingers and the developed photos in a shoebox did. They were my way of saying, I was here. I existed.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the boxes, and sighed. My body was heavy with exhaustion, but I couldn't rest. Something clicked inside me as I remembered what tomorrow would bring.
School.
A new one. Again.
My chest tightened, and I pressed my palms against my knees. I had almost forgotten, almost let myself believe I'd have a day or two to settle in, to breathe in this new environment before facing another set of hallways and strangers eyes. But no. Life didn't work like that. Tomorrow I would walk into a building full of people who already knew each other, already had friends, already belonged. And I would be the outsider again.
I wanted, desperately, to beg for just one day off. Just a single day to get comfortable in these unfamiliar walls. But I knew my parents wouldn't listen. To them, moving was routine, an adventure. For me, it was something else entirely.
I sighed again, softer this time, and pulled one of the boxes closer. The cardboard rasped against the carpet as I slid it across the floor. With slow, careful hands, I peeled the tape away and began to unpack.
One book after another. A few shirts, neatly folded. My sketchpad, the corners curled from years of use. My old camera, cool and familiar in my hands. And finally, my stuffed rabbit, its ears bent from years of being hugged too tightly. I set him gently on the bed beside me, his black button eyes staring back with quiet understanding.
Unpacking was supposed to make a place feel like home. That's what my mom always said. "Once you see your things around you, you'll feel settled." But I knew better. Four boxes didn't make a home. A bed didn't make a home. And deep down, I didn't believe I'd ever really have one.
Still, I kept working. Because tomorrow, when I walked into Wesley High School, I'd need at least the illusion of stability. I'd need to convince myself I belonged somewhere, even if it was only for a little while.
And so, in that quiet room filled with half-empty boxes, I began again.
.
.
.
.
As time passed, I managed to unpack everything. My clothes were folded neatly into the dresser drawers, my painting utensils tucked in the corner where the light from the window spilled across the floor. I leaned one of my half-finished canvases against the wall beside them, the faint strokes of color reminding me of places I'd already left behind. The small stack of photos I'd taken sunsets, streets, bits of sky went under my bed in their shoebox, hidden but close.
I sat back on my heels and wondered how much time had passed. It felt like forever and no time at all. With a sigh, I pushed myself up and wandered downstairs.
I didn't have electronics of my own. No phone, no tablet, not even an old laptop. My parents were the only ones who had phones, and I had learned not to ask for things they couldn't give. I remembered the one time I asked, years ago, if I could have my own. My father had shut the idea down immediately, saying we couldn't afford another phone or the extra bill that came with it. I never questioned them again.
When I reached the living room, my mother was in her element, pointing and directing the workers as they arranged the furniture. I hesitated at the edge of the room, then asked softly, "Mom, do you know what time it is?"
She didn't even look at me. "Go ask your father," she said, waving her hand toward the chaos of boxes and couches.
I didn't answer. Instead, I turned and headed into the kitchen, my eyes catching on her phone lying on the counter. I picked it up, the screen glowing to life as I tapped it. The numbers read
7:45.
"Oh" I whispered, more to myself than anyone else.
I set the phone back down exactly where I found it. When I looked back toward the living room, my mother was still barking instructions at the movers, too busy to notice me. I slipped quietly upstairs again and stretched out on my bed. For now, all I could do was rest.
.
.
.
The next morning, I felt someone shaking my shoulder, pulling me from a dream I couldn't quite remember. My eyelids were heavy as I blinked against the dim light creeping into my room. For a moment, I thought it was still the middle of the night.
"Get up" my mother's voice said, firm but rushed.
I groaned and rolled over. "What? It's midnight. Why are you—"
She cut me off with a sharp look. "What are you talking about? It's morning. Go take a bath, brush your teeth. You're starting school today."
Her words sank in slowly. School. First day. Wesley High.
I sat up quickly, my heart giving a startled jump. "I slept that long?" I murmured to myself. No wonder my body felt heavy, as if I'd been sinking in the mattress all night. "I must've been really tired."
Without arguing further, I dragged myself out of bed and went through the motions. Shower, toothbrush, the usual routine. Then I opened my dresser drawers and pulled out the first things that felt safe enough to wear plain jeans and a simple shirt. Nothing flashy, nothing to draw attention. Blending in was always my goal.
I combed my hair back into a neat ponytail and looked at my reflection for a moment. Nervous eyes stared back, uncertain and already tired.
By the time I came downstairs, my mother was waiting by the door with her keys in hand. "Let's go" she said, not wasting a second. I grabbed my bag, slipping the strap onto my shoulder. My stomach churned, too knotted with nerves to even consider breakfast.
We stepped outside, and the morning air hit me cool, fresh, and heavy with the faint smell of grass. Our driveway was cluttered with boxes waiting to be broken down, but my mother didn't seem to notice. She unlocked the car, and I slid into the passenger seat of her old, run-down sedan. The fabric on the seats was torn in places, and the dashboard rattled whenever the engine started, but to me it was familiar, almost comforting.
As she pulled out of the driveway, she reached into her bag and handed me a folded bill. "Here" she said simply.
I unfolded it and saw the green of a twenty-dollar note. "Thanks" I said softly, clutching it between my fingers. She didn't respond, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. But the silence wasn't cold. The message was clear enough—buy yourself something to eat on the way home.
She knew I didn't eat lunch at school. I'd tried before, but the food always left my stomach twisted and aching. Greasy pizza, mushy vegetables, overcooked pasta that stuck to the tray. My mother knew because she'd gone through the same thing as a kid. At least in that small way, she sympathized with me. It wasn't much, but it was something.
The car rattled as we went over a bump, and I tightened my grip on my backpack. My chest felt tighter with every street we passed, every turn that brought me closer. My mind filled with questions I couldn't answer Would anyone talk to me? Would they stare? Would they know instantly that I didn't belong?
Then, after one last turn, I saw it.
The school.
It loomed in front of us, a huge brick building with wide windows and banners fluttering at the entrance. The parking lot was alive with motion cars pulling in and out, buses lined up, students pouring out in groups. They moved in clusters, laughing, shouting, waving to friends. Some leaned against cars, others hurried across the lawn, backpacks bouncing.
The noise and energy hit me even from inside the car. There were so many of them. Too many.
My throat tightened as my mother slowed to pull into the drop-off lane. "We're here" she said, her tone clipped, as if this was just another errand to run.
I swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising panic. My hand went to the door handle, but for a moment I couldn't move. The school loomed larger than life, every brick and window shouting new, unknown, different.
Finally, with one last breath, I forced myself to open the door. The air outside was buzzing with voices, footsteps, car doors slamming. I adjusted the strap of my backpack, whispered one more quiet "oh god" to myself, and stepped into the sea of strangers.